Passage of Power

Acts 1:15-17; 21-26; John 17:6-19

Do any of you remember exactly where you were when President Johnson was sworn in?

How about when President Kennedy was shot?

I wasn’t there, of course, but I have seen the pictures.

Images of an open car on a street, a frozen moment of sudden movement and shock.

And the image of a crowded, low-ceilinged space, and Johnson with his right hand raised.

Two parts of the same story.  But most of the attention gets paid to the first part – the shocking tragedy. 

The scene in Air Force one is the post-script.

Something similar happens with the scriptural stories of Judas and Matthias.

Judas Iscariot first appears in the gospel stories when Jesus chooses twelve of his faithful disciples to become apostles – sent out on Jesus’ behalf to proclaim the kingdom of God, to teach and heal.  And then there’s this moment of searing tragedy when Judas turns Jesus over to those who will kill him.  

Matthias appears only once – in this post-script.  In the days just after Jesus’ ascension to heaven – while the disciples are still waiting in Jerusalem to find out what happens next – they determine that someone needs to take Judas’ place.

They nominate the two men who’ve been disciples and witnesses to Jesus from the first days of teaching through the resurrection.  They pray.  They throw dice. 

And the lot fell on Matthias.

And he’s never heard from again.

It’s not that the eleven remaining apostles couldn’t have continued to do the work Jesus had given them.  But twelve is the number of completeness for the people of God and the children of Abraham.  So twelve apostles serve as a sacrament, a visible sign, that God’s authority is stable and that the leadership of God’s people is complete.

I’ve seen the image of Lyndon Johnson’s airport inauguration many times.  And for me it’s always been an icon of continuity and hope – a promise that the shocking, painful present has a future.

That’s why the transfer of power matters – in a crisis or a time of uncertainty, it’s the connection of purpose between the present and the future –it gives us the bridge between what was or is, and what can be.

The United States of America need a living, competent, duly-sworn President.  The holy people of God need a circle of twelve, a sacrament of wholeness.

Of course, it’s not always dramatic. In most of our lives, the transfer of authority happens gradually – there’s a progression from car-seat to shiny new driver’s license, to eventually giving up the car keys.  A gradual, sometimes back-and-forth, pace from job training, to managing or mentoring others, to retirement. Every two years we swear in a Congress – and the names and faces change only gradually.

It happens in cycles and the milestones and moments aren’t always clear.

But it’s important to us, and it’s important to God.

In Jesus’ prayer for his disciples on the night before his arrest and death – the prayer we heard in the Gospel reading today – he’s managing a transfer of power.  Jesus prays that as he himself has glorified God and made God known, so may the disciples glorify Jesus and make him known.  And he prays for those who will learn from these disciples – a chain of prayer and the passing of authority and responsibility that comes all the way to you and me, here and now.

The job of the apostles – to proclaim the kingdom, to heal, to serve as witnesses of resurrection, and the job of Jesus – to glorify God and make God known – is transferred with all its authority and responsibility to those disciples in Jerusalem and from them to us.

It’s not the same crisis that we’re facing, but these too are uncertain times. We’re still waiting for Jesus, sill need these signs and assurance.

In a very real way, you and I, the church today, are that same sacrament of hope and purpose that Matthias was in the days just after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension.

It’s not easy.  It’s often messy – in fact, the rest of Jesus’ prayer for the disciples is mostly that they’ll survive this work, that they’ll be protected from the danger and disruption of a world that isn’t all that eager for the glory of God.

And sometimes we screw it up.

We forget the responsibility, or we get God’s power and God’s glory confused with our own ambitions and preferences.  Sometimes we can hurt people – on purpose or by accident.

Last week I saw a TV interview with Robert Caro who has written an extensive biography of Lyndon Johnson (4 volumes and counting), and he re-told the story of that moment in Air Force One in November 1963.

He talked about how Johnson had hated Kennedy’s politics, how the President and Vice-President had been distant and uncooperative, how Johnson had paced the hospital waiting to hear if Kennedy were dead – then deliberately called Robert Kennedy to ask details of the oath just minutes after he learned his brother had died.  The interviewer made him sound like a jerk.

And then told how once the oath had been sworn, Johnson rushed to do everything he could to live out his vision of a nation that respected civil rights, cared for the elderly and the marginalized, and walked the walk of justice and equality for all.

It doesn’t matter that Johnson could be a manipulator or coldly political. It doesn’t matter that Matthias disappears from the story the moment he’s installed among the Twelve.  It doesn’t matter that you and I make mistakes, and fail.

It matters that God has put that power into our hands.  It matters that we allow ourselves to be an icon of hope.  It matters that we remember that miracles are possible, and that God makes us a promise to the future of God’s people. 

That’s what we’re doing when we support each other in serving at PADS – or in the Indian Princesses and Guides.  In sorting food for the hungry, bringing dinner to a sick friend, doing our ordinary weekday job with compassion and generous hearts. 

Glorifying God is what we’re called to do when we throw a party to say thank you, when we have a chance to explain to a co-worker or a friend just what it is that gets us through a personal crisis or a tough work day, when we walk in the Lilac Parade.

We make mistakes, but we also make miracles.

It started with Jesus’ prayer for the disciples, and it started with Matthias.  But God keeps on putting the power and the responsibility into our hands to be Christ in the world,

and you and I, like Matthias, become a sacrament of God’s purpose, an icon of the future.

And that’s a story worth remembering.

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!