Paradise Now

Psalm 23; John 10:11-18

I’ve never wanted to be a sheep. 

I’ve never felt especially fluffy, or inclined to be part of a herd.

But three weeks after Easter every year, we arrive at Shepherd Sunday, and we hear this metaphor on lots of other occasions.

It’s a familiar image for Christians.  The very earliest surviving example of Christian art is an image of the Good Shepherd in a catacomb, a tomb in Rome.  The Good Shepherd appears in tombs and cathedrals for hundreds of years before the first cross or crucifix is drawn.

And although it’s a pretty familiar image, it’s a pretty big and radical claim in its context.

When Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd,” he’s telling us that he’s God.  It’s well established in the Hebrew scriptures that God is the good shepherd for Israel.  The guard and guide, who provides abundance, nurtures the lambs and drives off the wolves.

The most familiar example of that is in the psalm we read today. 

It’s a very powerful claim that Jesus makes,

telling us he is the Good Shepherd.

And it’s a powerful claim that we make,

every time we say this psalm.

The Lord is my shepherd.

God is my guide and guard, God brings us into abundance, keeps us out of trouble, creates a feast even in the face of danger, surrounds us with faithfulness and goodness, and we’re in God’s presence every hour of our lives.

It’s a claim to live in paradise.

Did you notice that? 

At funerals or in hospitals, in worship or in Sunday School, whenever we say that psalm we are saying that we live in paradise.

Now.

It’s a radical claim. 

Think about paradise for a minute.  Picture paradise in your head.

Close your eyes if that helps.

Some of you are probably looking at palm trees.  Warm water, white sand beaches.  Maybe a tropical sunset.  That’s the modern standard for paradise, it seems.

Others are probably picturing heaven – paradise as the place where all our fear is gone, all the power of death is gone, and nothing can separate us from those we love.

 I’m sure there are at least a few other pictures in the room – images of what you most desire, or the best place you’ve ever been.

But I’m wondering, are there any of you who envisioned paradise and saw the world we live in, every day?

Because you could have.

Some old and deep traditions of the church hold that paradise is where we are, now, the present reality of our life in Christ.

The 23^rd Psalm, with its images of abundance and beauty, was proclaimed by the newly baptized in some early Christian communities.  You and I, by virtue of our baptism, have become citizens of paradise already – not some time after we die.

Of course, that’s not a promise that baptism means a life on a white sand beach under a palm tree.  (That’s what the cruise lines and tourism folks are selling you.) 

Paradise now is life with the confidence that God guides and guards us – no matter what.  That we are surrounded by God’s abundance, and not even the presence of our enemies or the darkest threats of our fear and anxiety can limit that abundance.  That God’s faithfulness and goodness are unshakable, can never be taken from us, and that we live in the presence of God every minute of our lives. 

I know that many of you already know that’s true.  You teach it to me regularly, as we journey through health crises and budget planning, as the bright ribbons of gratitude and praise continue to appear on our Easter cross, by the font.

But there’s more to paradise than that. Every time I turn on the news, there’s another story about the presidential election.  About what the one guy said about what’s wrong with our country, and about what the other guy said about what’s wrong with the first guy. 

Then the next day, they switch places.

That works to get votes when we’re living in the valley of the shadow.  When we’re afraid of what we can lose.  It all makes sense only if there’s not enough to go around, and we can’t trust our neighbors.

What would our election ads and news look like if every Christian in this country really lived the words we prayed today?
The Lord is my shepherd.  I lack nothing. 

We live in green pastures, with quiet waters. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow, I shall not fear.  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me….

Would you think and talk about politics differently if you believe every word of the psalm and the gospel not only with your head, but with your heart, and more importantly, your gut?

I know I would.  And sometimes I even do.

Would you think and talk and even act differently in traffic?  Or at home, when the dangers of growing up or growing old loom large and the walls of the valley are steep and dark? 

If we believed this psalm with our hearts and our guts, and that powerful part of yourself that lives in your spine and nervous system, would you think and talk differently at work, when deadlines loom, the presence of those who trouble you is all too real, and the shadow of the fear of the economy presses in all around?

Paradise now, for you and me, is living convinced in body and soul that God is our shepherd, and we fear no evil, but rather dwell in the house of the Lord every minute of our lives.  To live without the fear that we can lose what we have, or that we won’t have enough. 

It’s radical enough to change the way we work, live, love, drive or vote – and that can change the world.

In the ancient catacombs and cathedrals, the Good Shepherd was the sign that we walk in paradise in the presence of death and in the presence of power.

Where do would you put that shepherd today? 

I’d put it on my TV.  On my steering wheel.  On my computer monitor.

You might put it on the fridge.  On your checkbook; on the office wall.  Anywhere we need that sign inviting us to abundant life without fear, right here and now.

I never wanted to be a sheep, but I’ve come to realize you don’t have to be white and fluffy to need a shepherd.  At least, this shepherd.

Because the Good Shepherd is the signpost and the gateway to paradise now.

And that really will change the world.  Or at least your life.

What's next?

Luke 24:36-48

Imagine yourself at a wake, listening to the conversations.

There’s the running refrain of sympathy: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”  “We’ll miss her.” 

And a persistent current of praise: “He was such a wonderful man.”

The value of this one unique human life is very clear in the room.

And amid those currents are a few eddies where grief takes the form of honest, humorous commentary:

“He never did have an ounce of patience – you can almost hear him saying now, ‘Get moving with the burial already!’” 

“Think how different this would be if she were running this show – she must hate it that she can’t be in charge.”

And in the quieter conversations – or the things that are never said aloud – there’s the bitter taste of things left undone.  The pain of unreturned calls or visits promised but not made.  The sharpened regrets of anger, old injuries, and misunderstandings that never got resolved.

And sometimes there’s the sense of betrayal – the horrible shock of having been left with so much unfinished, and not even a word of farewell.

Now imagine that the dead woman or man walks right into the middle of this.

Literally, just walks into the middle of the room.

There’s a lot of silence, isn’t there?

And what an emotional roller coaster!

That’s what happened to the disciples in Jerusalem.  There they are – gathered to begin to deal with the death of Jesus – and the dead man himself walks into the room.

Shock and disbelief come very naturally. 

After all, people who have been buried generally stay dead --

– and “welcome back!” has never been one of those usefully labeled stages of grief. 

Resurrection is incredibly disruptive.

Maybe that’s why Jesus opens the conversation by saying “Peace be with you.”

But that’s when the scene gets even weirder. Because even though he’s dead, the rest of this story is all about the way it’s always been.  Everything Jesus does in this scene is what he has done, with the disciples, over and over and over again, already.

He eats.

He leads a bible study.

He commissions them to tell good news.

In fact, living-after-death Jesus is just about the same as living-the-normal-human-life Jesus.  As long as you can get over the complicated emotions about his death and return, that is.

In the gospel stories of that first Easter there’s no reconciliation and no closure.  The resurrected Jesus doesn’t seem to have time for conversations about the way we misunderstood him in the past, apologies for being absent in a time of need, or regret for things left undone.

He just plain doesn’t have those conversations we imagine having when we’re remembering a loved one at a wake or after the funeral.

Jesus sends the stunned disciples right out into the world to preach repentance and forgiveness, without spending any time on apologies and rebuilding relationships.

That’s the curious thing about resurrection.  It’s about the present and the future, not the past.  It’s about taking new life to others, not repairing old injuries.

Those stunned disciples in Jerusalem found themselves out in the street building God’s kingdom: preaching, teaching, healing and converting, forgiving others in Christ’s name – not apologizing to Jesus, healing their own hurts, and rebuilding their relationships. 

(That might be what we want in a second chance, but it’s not the gospel story.)

We meet Easter the way we meet death, whether we want to or not – brought suddenly into a new world, one that’s like the one we loved and lost, but insistently about the present and the future, pushing and pulling us away from the past.

Imagine yourself at that wake, again.

And when the dead person walks into the room, and all those conversations drop abruptly into silence, no one says: “I missed you!”  or “I’m sorry!”

but instead the risen one says:  “The world is on fire.  Help me put it out!”  or  “The world is hungry!  Help me feed it!”

Imagine that everyone in the room rushes right out into the street to change the world.

That’s not like any funeral I’ve been to.  But it might just be like the kingdom of God.

There’s something we do in our worship services in Easter that is a little like this. 

All the rest of the year, when the prayers of the people end, we confess our sins and are assured of God’s forgiveness.  But for seven weeks in this season, we don’t.  We pray for God’s world, and then right away exchange God’s peace.

Leaving out the general confession in Easter is an ancient tradition of the church.  One that rests on the truth that as we are baptized into Christ’s death and resurrection, we too are dead to sin and risen to new life. 

But it also reminds us that resurrection is uncomfortable, because it’s not about healing the past, and it’s ultimately not about us.

Resurrection makes the world we change more important than the world we’re from.

It’s about renewal, rebirth, and life abundant for the whole wide world.  The gift of resurrection is a future more whole and healed than we could ever imagine – a future we get to proclaim to the world,

ready or not.

Today we gather, you and I, and we do what Jesus and his disciples did every day.

Study the scriptures.  Eat.  Refresh our relationship with God and one another.

And on the day of resurrection – this day of resurrection – we are sent out again, as witnesses of these things,

not for our own sake, but for the future of the world.

Ready or not, resurrection comes!

Hands Up

Mark 16:1-8

Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Doesn’t that get your adrenaline pumping? Are you scared yet?
No?

Didn’t you notice what happens today? Mary and Mary and Salome go to the tomb to care for the body of Jesus, and he’s gone.
Right there, you can feel them start to panic, just a little.
And there’s a strange man there telling them he’s gone off to Galilee.
(But he’s dead – isn’t he?) You can’t blame the women if they felt like they’d dropped into a zombie story, long before that kind of horror story became popular weekend entertainment.
They were afraid, for good reason.

But there was that other thing the man said: He is risen.
He’s expecting you to meet him, as he promised. Tell the others!
And in the midst of the fear there are bubbles of possibility and hope and wonder. Maybe he’s not just risen, not just up and about for the day, but alive. Maybe those wonderful dreams that seemed impossible these last months and years are about to be true.
And the joy seizes them, ready or not.

It’s too much. Mary and Mary and Salome can’t stand still: They fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

That’s where Mark leaves us. This isn’t a triumphant Easter story – it’s wildly unfinished. The credits never roll.

This Easter is nothing like the way we celebrate with fanfare and lilies, candy and ham. It’s more like that first big downhill on a roller coaster, where everything you believe about the security of the shoulder harness vanishes, the adrenaline spikes, and you know, just for an instant, that this was a big mistake.

I love to ride roller coasters.
I’m not a fan of elevators (I worry about getting stuck) or airplanes. Heights and enclosure bother me just enough to notice – and so does the fact that I’m not driving.
But on roller coasters I know perfectly well I’m doing something that’s irrational. Ridiculous. And because it’s so ridiculous, it’s almost easy to commit myself to the impossible.
So I take a deep breath as the car chugs slowly up the track, and I get more aware of gravity with every foot of open air between me and the ground….
and as the coaster tips over the highest point, it all happens at once: adrenaline spikes and I recognize in the same instant that I am going to die, and that I’m flying.

That’s when my hands go up in the air.
They have to.
To ride that coaster I have to surrender to the terror and amazement, and absolutely let go. Open my hands and release any illusion of control.

Throw my hands up into the air and surrender to Easter.

Resurrection: the impossible, genuine, living after death, requires surrender to the fear and the ecstasy. Easter means opening our hands and hearts and letting go of any illusion of control OR rationality.

But then there’s a delightful freedom to Easter. When we know we are living the impossible, the normal constraints can’t hold us back. You can let go of practicality, of concern about what others will think – and more importantly, what you’ll think of yourself.

Surrendering to Easter makes all the other miracles possible:
The world-wide, transformative reach of the story of one man crucified by the Romans. The triumph of dignity and personhood for each of God’s people in the end of apartheid and legal discrimination.
Reconciliation between nations and between family members. Life abundant in the face of incurable cancer. Life abundant even in deep and lasting grief.

Roller coasters are an easier commitment than Easter.
Once you get through the line and lock down the safety bar, you can’t get off in the middle – and even the longest coaster ride only lasts about 4 minutes.

Easter starts with that moment of flying and falling in fear and ecstasy – and goes on and on and on. Easter is when God interrupts our lives with that moment of suspense. And it isn’t finished yet.
And it’s much easier to step off of Easter in the middle, pulled back into the limits of practicality and money and not-enough-time and gravity underfoot.

That’s why we come back here every year, and tell this story with trumpet fanfares, flowers, festive decorations – and chocolate rabbits and sugary treats. Because we need to surrender to Easter to make all those other miracles possible.
And surrendering to Easter takes practice.

I didn’t always like roller coasters. First I avoided them. Then I watched. And when I was persuaded to try, I started small and I hung on tight. Eventually I loosened my grip on the safety harness.
And then one day, at the top of the biggest possible hill, my hands flew up into the air and I let go of any pretense of controlling the ride.
I fell and I flew. Terror and ecstasy and sheer uninhibited joy.
For two and a half minutes, anyway.

We practice Easter, too. We come and hear the story, amid the lilies and the celebration, and we watch the transformation of others. Then we take a chance – a little risk of new life: venture a friendship that isn’t easy, invest in an unlikely hope after a tough disappointment – ride the fear and the joy, letting go just a bit.
We come back to the story again when we need it to face the fear and potential of greater and greater things, so that one day we can let everything go – come face to face with death – and open our hands and hearts and spirits to the shock and ecstasy of resurrection, to fly even as we fall.

It’s hard, but it does get easier.
Every journey through loss and death to life abundant makes the next one possible. Every time you take your hands off the grab bar it gets a little easier to receive the freedom to fly, the invitation to life beyond limits.

That’s why we’re here today. To practice surrendering to the terror and ecstasy of the empty tomb and the impossible, wonderful message of hope. To practice letting go; surrendering to Easter with our hands open and lifted high.

So today, this week, this year,
when you’re at the table with family, or biting into the chocolate bunny, or basking in the light and joy
- or the next time fear and anxiety start to rise because it’s just not going the way you expected –
open your hands.

Lift them off the grab bar – let go of whatever makes you feel secure in the presence of God – and raise them over your head, so that just for a moment, you surrender to resurrection and fly.

Try it now…
        [hands up]
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!