(1) I need to bring this literature more securely within my preaching orbit.

(2) I believe in the continuity of the covenants.

(3) I see a creeping Marcionism that is embarrassed by the earthiness and violence of the OT amongst lay people and clergy that I know.

So, I’m looking for commentary recommendations. Today, it’s the best preaching commentary you can recommend for Samuel/Kings. Click on the title of this blog and you’ll be able to add your recommendation in the comments section.

Last week, we reflected together on the last of the seven “I am” sayings, I am the true vine. We took note of its three movements—the vine, the vinedresser, and the branches. Life comes from the vine and flows into the branches. The vinedresser prunes the vines so that the life flowing into them will result in fruit; the vinedresser cuts away the branches that are dead. So it is that our connectedness to God is Jesus. He is the one through whom God’s life comes to us. God the Father, as the vinedresser, prunes us with the words of his Son that we might bear fruit. But just what is fruit? If Jesus is the vine, the Father, the vinedresser, and us, the branches, what is the fruit that is the sign that the life of Jesus is being lived through us? That is what we are going to look at today.

The answer is both distressingly difficult and wonderfully. Difficult insofar as it is just so hard to see not simply in our common life but in the common lives of the churches throughout history from the book of Acts to the present day. Its appearance is so exceptional, in fact, that when it does occur, we are amazed. We are shocked. We call the people who embody it saints. We call the groups that embody it renewal movements. The people and the movements get written up in history books while the pious lives of most of us go unremarked.

Think of the names: Edith Stein, Theresa of Calcutta, Francis of Assissi, William Wilberforce, Billy Graham. Think of the movements: the Catholic Workers Movement. The Little Sisters of Charity. The Church Missionary Society. The Order of the Friars Minor. Why, the names of people and movements cross all the divides of Christendom and are celebrated regardless of historical distance or theological disagreement. These are names invoked with awe. Names cited in our prayers as examples that God would give us the grace and strength to emulate. What they did and do is hard. The fruit they bore for the kingdom of God is hard work. Obviously hard.

And yet, as Jesus describes what the fruit is, it is so simple. So easy to understand. Why, you get the impression that as far as Jesus is concerned, this isn’t supposed to be the exception in our common life, but the rule. This is how things are supposed to happen. Indeed, if we take the organic nature of the vine metaphor seriously, it’s not merely a matter of “supposed to.” It is much stronger. It is more a matter of “inevitably will.”

If we are united to the Lord Jesus, if we are connected to him as branch to vine, such that his life flows into us, the bearing of fruit will take place. As sure as bud gives way to blossom  and blossom leads to apple (ok, I’ve switched from vines to trees, but go with me), we will bear fruit. If we are being pruned by his Father as we attend to his word and fed by his life as we come to his table, we will bear fruit. Indeed, not only will we bear fruit, but we will do so joyfully. I have said these things that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete. Fruit bearing is an organically inevitable, normal, joyful consequence of our real, life-giving union with Jesus.

But we still haven’t said what it is yet. Are you ready? Here it is: This is the fruit we will bear if we are united to the vine: we will love each other. That’s it! Love each other. Bear much fruit. Abide in my love. Obey my commandment. This is my commandment—love each other.

So simple. So inevitable. So normal. So joyful. So absolutely and frustratingly rare. Why?

We might begin to find the answer to this question when we realize that the love with which we are to love each other is the very love that binds the Son to the Father. What does this love look like? That’s what the entire Gospel of John is all about. And it is encapsulated in the verse many of us memorized as children. The verse with which we comfort or strengthen ourselves as we come to the table of the Lord in the BCP: For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.

It is a love that is demanding, that is sending, that is strong and that is costly. How costly? Do you remember Jesus words about fruitfulness in John 12? Unless a seed falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a seed. But if it dies, it bears much fruit. Jesus elaborates on that theme here: No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. The love with which you are to love one another is the love with which I love you. I will show you my love and the Father’s love by dying for you. That’s the love you are to abide in. That’s the love that flows from me to you. That’s the love that bears fruit, that is the fruit of being united to me. That’s the love that I command.

And now we are beginning to see just why fruitfulness is so simple and yet so very difficult and so very, very rare. Gilbert Keith Chesterton, the great Catholic popular apologist of the early 20^th century put it aptly: “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.” We would rather say with the TV preacher that God loves us and wants us to be materially prosperous, or with Oprah, that God loves us wants us to be psychologically sound and happy, than to say with Jesus that God loves us wants us to give our lives for the sakes of the lives of others as an embodiment of that love.

But, my friends, that is what Jesus says. And if we would be his friends, that is both what we must say and how we must live. Again, not in the sense of struggling to get as close to the impossibly high ideal as we can on our own, but in the organic sense of being pruned, being nourished, and being fruitful.

Indeed, our fruitfulness has nothing at all to do with our own powers or our own initiative. Our fruitfulness hinges on the free choice and lavish love of him who is the vine—I chose you. I appointed you. You will bear lasting fruit. There again we are faced with the language of inevitability. Our fruitfulness, our capacity to obey the command to love, hangs not our capacity for niceness or compassion, but on the choice of him who has united himself to us in love, who prunes us with his words, who feeds us with his very self by his Spirit in the gifts of bread and wine.

During his long pontificate, Pope John Paul II canonized 482 people and beatified 1388 others. In other words, he “officially recognized” 482 people as saints and 1388 others as blessed. These people, he said, are examples of faith and holiness and fruitfulness and the adventure and joy that is the Christian life. That’s more canonizations and beatifications than all previous popes before. Why did he do that?

Because he himself recognized that the Christian life as described by Jesus in this passage was reckoned to be both easily understood and difficult to actually live. So, he wanted believers to see that it could be lived, that there were examples of fruitfulness all around us if we have eyes to look for them, that the Christian life can be joyful and abounding in the costly love with which God loves the world. The people he canonized were people from all walks of life, from both sexes, from all inhabited continents. Saints, he said, in effect, are found everywhere. They are gifts of God to all of us. Examples to be embraced and emulated whatever our vocations might be.

It was John Paul II’s way of saying, it’s not as rare or as difficult as we have been trained by the father of lies to believe. The examples of self-giving love are there. We just need to look for them.

Now, look around, saints. Because if you have been called by Christ, that’s what you are. You don’t need to wait for the church, in any official way to recognize that it’s true. It’s already true. So look around. Do you see the fruitfulness that is the love of Christ here? Do you see it among us? I do. I see it in lots of ways and in lots of places.

I see it on Out of the Cold Fridays.

I see it on bicycle ambulances.

I see it when we welcome visitors with a cup of coffee before service.

I see it when we make sandwiches for the mission.

I see it when we invite people to join us for worship.

I see it when we celebrate the new life in Christ when someone is baptized.

But I’ll tell you a secret. I want to see more!

Not more in the sense of piling activities on top of activities until we burn out. More in the sense of seeing the love of Christ so infuse whatever we do—whether we have been doing it for a long time or not—that it ceases to be chore and becomes instead the completion of our joy.

So, I want to give you in the time we have left, a 7 step programme for fruitfulness, a 5 factor lesson on love, and 12 tips on radical discipleship which you can incorporate into your lives.

No I don’t, actually.

Because it’s not a matter of programmes, lessons, or tips. It is a matter of prayer: “I appointed you to go and bear fruit . . . so that the Father will give you whatever you ask!” Isn’t that daring? Not daring in the sense of bravery, but just daring—don’t you think Jesus is daring us to ask? I think he is.

So, let’s ask. It is my prayer for this parish and its priest that the Father so to prune us with his word, so to enliven us with the life of his Son in the power of his Spirit, that we would bear lasting fruit. That we would, organically and inevitably love one another to the very end.

I do not that God would make love easy, but that he would make us fit for the challenge to love in Christ’s love, with Christ’s love and as Christ loves.

Will you ask with me?

Metaphors work in different ways. At one extreme, metaphors are simply flowery ways of saying something else that, in plain language, would have been, well, plain. I once heard bishop T. D. Jakes, the pastor of the Potter’s House in Dallas, use one particularly striking example. He was exhorting his congregation—in the cadence that is unique to African American preachers—against the deceitfulness of wealth. “Some of you,” he said, “think money will solve all your problems. But I’m here to tell you that money can make you…” he could have said here, behave strangely. Instead he said this “money can make you crazier than a bed-bug in a bottle of liquor.” I have never seen a bed-bug. I am not a connoisseur of adult beverages. And yet, I have a good idea of what Jakes meant. And when his congregation laughed, I did too.

On the other hand, in science (and in religion) metaphors actually serve to increase our knowledge because they enable us to speak of objects new and unknown in terms that are familiar. Another example. The metaphorical description of the universe as a machine provided the foundation for Enlightenment advances in the natural sciences (especially in the work of Isaac Newton) and in philosophy and mathematics (especially in the work of Rene Descartes). That metaphor has now been replaced. But that over the last 250 years in Western culture it was a major contributor to our understanding of the world’s workings.

Metaphor is the vehicle of discovery. It’s the way human beings use language to come to know the world around them. And when we turn to the Gospel lesson both this morning and next week, it is this second use of metaphor that I want us to have firmly in mind.

The “I am” statements in the Gospel John are seven examples of just this kind metaphor. When Jesus says I am the  bread, I am the light, I am the door, I am the good shepherd, I am the resurrection and the life, I am the way the truth and the life, and I am the true vine, he is explaining to us the truth about himself, about his identity and mission, in words drawn from other spheres of life not simply for dramatic license, but because no other words will do. If we are reduced to metaphor when describing the behaviour of quarks and quasars—of objects in our own universe—how much more so when we try to explain the significance of that little article in the Creed’s, “being of one substance with the Father,” just three words in the Creed’s original language.

Is metaphor an inadequate vehicle in science and theology? Yes. Because the reality it describes will always be exceed the grasp of the language. Is metaphor the only vehicle we’ve got? Yes. Because that is how the language of discovery—both scientific and theological—works.

With that still in mind, we come to the Gospel lesson for the morning: another I am statement. This time, Jesus says, I am the true vine. And, over the next six verses, he elaborates: his father is the vinedresser who tends to the well-being of the vines and his hearers are the branches. Three intersecting images. Each needs further exploration.

First, Jesus is the true vine. You will recall from last week that each of the seven images highlights in different ways the unique way in which Jesus mediates God’s presence to God’s people and, in so doing, judges Israel’s leadership to be a failure. Thus, over against the bad shepherds of Ezekiel 34, Jesus is the Good Shepherd who not only lays down his life for the sheep, but also takes it up again.

Here we have a similar dichotomy drawn from Jeremiah 2 and Isaiah 5 where God’s rejection of Israel is expressed in images drawn from the vineyard. God through the prophet Jeremiah says to the people of Israel:  “I planted you as a choice red vine, true stock all of you, yet now you are turned into a vine debased and worthless.”  Likewise, through Isaiah he says, “What more was there to do for my vineyard than I have not done in it? When I expected it to yield grapes, why did it yield wild grapes? And now I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard. I will remove its hedge, and it shall be devoured; I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down. “

Jesus and John may be subtle, but there is no mistaking their message. By playing off the prophetic imagery of the failed vines and the fruitless vineyard, they make clear that those who reject Jesus and his message—those who, in the Gospel, are orchestrating his death—are dried up and worthless. Jesus, on the other hand, is he who re-does their mission. Where they fail—and find themselves cut off—he succeeds. He is the true vine who brings life to the branches. He is the source of the divine life that animates the people of God.

Second, the Father is the vinedresser or vinegrower. This image is again carried over from the words of divine judgment in Jeremiah. Just as the covenant God of Israel planted the vine in Jeremiah 2, so now Jesus’ Father tends to the branches here. And he tends to the branches by pruning them. Those branches that are fruitful will be pruned in order that they might be more fruitful. Those branches that are not, will be pruned away, or cut off and burned.

Don’t be distracted by the branches and their fruitfulness or their fruitlessness. For now, focus on the vinegrower. He who will tend to the branches, ensuring those which are healthy become healthier and those which are dead and useless will not infect any others. Notice also that his tending of both the healthy branches and the unhealthy ones is similar—he cuts them. Healthy branches, he cuts clean. He removes unwanted growth. Unhealthy ones, he cuts away. He removes the branch altogether. And the words of Jesus are the vinegrower’s pruning shears. Those who attend to the words of Jesus are already clean. They already have been pruned in order to be fruitful.

Now finally, we can move to the branches. There are two kinds of branches: the fruitful and the fruitless. The only difference between the two is their relatedness to the Vine.  And that relationship is defined in terms of union. But again, the branches are not the point. Jesus is. Jesus is the Vine. Jesus’ words are the means by which the vinegrower prunes the branches. And here, Jesus’ life is the source of the fruitfulness of the branches.

On the one hand, this strikes a note of tremendous encouragement. Rest assured, says Jesus, that I remain in you and because I remain in you, you will be fruitful. And fruitfulness is nothing less and nothing other than experiencing both his love and his joy in their fullness. In effect, he says this: “Because I am the source of your life, because my words are the means by which your spiritual vitality is maintained, you will come to love your brothers and sisters as I have loved you. Because I am the source of your life, because my words are the means by which your spiritual vitality is maintained, you will have joy in its fullness. You can’t help it! It is the inevitable result of being united to me.”

On the other hand, Jesus’ words here in verses 4-6 also strike a note of judgment. Apart from union with him, with the true vine, the branches will not be fruitful. Those who refuse to abide in him can do nothing. Those who do not find their source of life in him will not find it elsewhere. Rather, they will die. Those who cut themselves off wither. They dry up. They become useful only for firewood. This dichotomy is as stark as the previous one. In Christ, “much fruit.” Apart from Christ, nothing.

Now, what does this have to do with us? Let’s deal with each of the interrelated metaphors in turn.

Jesus is the vine. The source of our life, in other words, is him. His words. His life. What a wonderfully organic image! One that we need to keep firmly fixed in our minds and hearts especially as we attend to our part in God’s mission here in Sudbury. For this image highlights again just why we come to church in the first place. Why we’re not, as a colleague recently put it, Rotary Club with bread and wine.

There’s nothing wrong with Rotary. I’m a member of the Sunrisers myself. But the church is not a service club. The church’s mission is not a matter of duplicating a service club’s work. The mission of the Church is no less and none other than to take the very life of Christ from here into the world, so that that life may judge and redeem, prune and heal, redeem and rescue God’s good creation. Indeed, the Church doesn’t have a mission. Insofar as the Church is animated by the very life of Christ, it is the mission.

In just a few moments, we are going to present ourselves at this altar. Through bread and wine, we are going to take the life of the Risen Lord into our lives and at the same time, we are going to be taken into his risen life. And then, we’re going to be sent out so that in all we say and do, that life will spill over into God’s world! Mission is not a checklist for followers of Jesus; mission is participation in the life of the Incarnate Son and taking that life to the world. Inviting others into the life of Christ—that, and nothing else, is the mission of God undertaken in and through us, God’s church.

The Father is the vinedresser. The responsibility for the health of the plant is his. It is not our responsibility to prune the plant. It’s God’s. How we want to prune the plant! And do so in the strangest of ways! We want to take on the health of the church as our project, and weed out or cut away the dead wood, the dried up branches. What a joy to know that that’s not our job! The health of the plant is the vinedresser’s responsibility. And he will do the pruning.

And God will do so how? Through the words of Jesus. We are the branches. Jesus’ words prune us and make us fruitful. If we come to participate in the life of Jesus through the sacrament, we come to submit ourselves to the pruning work of the words of Jesus in the reading and the proclamation of the Scriptures.

Have you noticed that in all of this, we have spoken about mission and never once said anything about this or that programme, this or that initiative, the latest thing to come from Synod office? There’s nothing wrong with any of those things. They are merely tools, however. The mission is organic. The mission is, having been pruned by the word of Jesus and fed by the life of Jesus, we will take that life out into the world to share it as extravagantly, as prodigally, as the Father has with us! Not because we are under obligation, but because we’re so full of Christ’s life that we can’t help it.

Grant us therefore gracious Lord so to eat the Flesh of your dear son and to drink us blood, that we may evermore dwell in him and he in us! Amen.

This is neither a good nor a bad thing. It’s simply a part of her life. Sara’s distaste for meat points to something that is a problem for more and more of us all the time. The more we are alienated from the land, the less that agricultural metaphors have purchase on our imaginations. And of course, the Bible was written by people who lived very close to the land, and whose images are fuelled by that relationship.

So here we are with “I am the Good Shepherd,” and we might not know what to do with it. Some of us, particularly if we have grown up in church, might want to read this saying through some pretty romanticized visions of Jesus the Good Shepherd. Visions that have been captured in the paintings of Werner Salman and his many imitators. In Sallman’s classic, a haloed Jesus dressed in white cuddles a lamb in one hand and holds a shepherd’s staff in his other. He is surrounded by white sheep—only one is black. They are walking out of a valley, into a lush field, beside a quiet stream. Of course, this is a rather soft-focus reading together of the 23^rd Psalm and our Gospel Lesson. The sheep are being led by the Good Shepherd along the paths of righteousness beside still waters.

But is that what is really going on when Jesus takes this title as his own? When Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd,” does he have quiet pastoral images in view? I don’t think so and I want to tell you why and what difference it makes this morning.

The first reason has to do with the context of the saying in John’s Gospel. “I am the Good Shepherd,” is one of John’s seven “I am sayings” which have an object. Do you know them? I am the bread of life; I am the light of the world; I am the gate; I am the good shepherd; I am the resurrection and the life; I am the way, the truth and the life; I am the vine.

All seven highlight the absolute uniqueness of Jesus’ place in God’s saving work. They do so in two ways. First, notice the object. The first one is bread—that is, food—food that Jesus will go on to tie to his very flesh and blood. Unless we eat this food, he says, we do not have life. Light—not just any light either, but the light of life. Whoever follows Jesus will never walk in darkness. The gate—whoever comes into the sheepfold through Jesus will have abundant life. I am the resurrection and the life—uttered in front of the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus thus declares himself the enemy of death. I am the way—in response to Thomas frank acknowledgement that he does not know the way to the Father, Jesus says plainly, the way to the Father is through me. And finally, I am the vine. The life that comes from God, the life that makes us truly alive flows through me and into you. So, Jesus says, live in me. Abide in the vine. Each object points to the absolute singularity of Jesus. Each highlights the truth Jesus expressed in his nighttime conversation to Nicodemus: “This is how God loves the world: God sent his only Son.”

The second way in which the “I am” sayings highlight the uniqueness of Jesus revolves around his use of the phrase I am. Ego eimi, in Greek. In each of the above sayings, in Greek grammar, the construction we translate as I am is not so much wrong as it is unnecessary. It makes for very awkward reading in the original language. John’s Greek is usually quite polished. Again, just as we said when we talked about the temple cleansing in this Gospel, for a blunder, this is too big. So why are the declarations composed in this way?

I am, you will recall, is God’s very name. When Moses stands before the burning bush and asks, whom shall I say is sending me, what does God say? God says, “Tell them I am is sending you.” Jesus here, in saying these things in this way is uniquely identifying himself with the very presence and person of God. Indeed, there are seven more I am sayings that lack an object, that highlight Jesus’ daring claim even more. “I am, I the one who is speaking to you,” he says to the woman at the well. “I am. Do not be afraid” he says to the disciples on the sea. “You will die in your sins unless you believe that I am,” “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will know that I am,” “Before Abraham was, I am,” all said to his enemies. “I tell you these things before hand so that when they take place you will know that I am,” he says to his disciples at the Last Supper. And finally, when the soldiers come looking for Jesus in the Garden, he identifies himself simply as “I am.”

When Jesus says “I am,” our ears should perk up. When Jesus says I am, our hearts should begin to race. These are not words to be greeted with a shrug. These are words that get us to the heart of the Gospel. Words that declare to us the identity of the One sent from God, the one who is the glory of God—God’s visible presence—sent to the world not to condemn but to save it. Simple images that express the profundity of God and of God’s inexhaustible love for the world he has made and is redeeming.

So what is Jesus saying to us when he says, “I am the Good Shepherd,”? He is, saying something very clearly about himself as the God’s one and only Son. The one who, in himself is the glory of the God. The one word of God from all eternity who has taken our flesh and dwelt among us. In and through this image, he is disclosing himself as the saving act of God. I am the Good Shepherd.

But just what is he saying about himself? Can we think ourselves past or through our own difficulties with the image? Difficulties given to us by our alienation from the land and at least 50 years of bad Christian art? I think we can.

As Jesus himself unpacks the image of the Good Shepherd, the image is very unlike Sallman’s painting. Indeed, it is very unlike Psalm 23. As far as Jesus is concerned, what makes the Good Shepherd good is that, unlike the hired hand, he actually will lay down his life for his sheep. The Good Shepherd is one who will literally lie down in the opening to the sheep fold, there to sleep, to keep the sheep safe and the enemies outside. The Good Shepherd is one who knows all the sheep, and the sheep know him. In both ways, the good shepherd is not like the hired hand who, at the first sign of trouble—a wolf—runs away and leaves the sheep exposed and unprotected, to be snatched and scattered. The Good Shepherd knows the sheep—is invested in the sheep’s lives—in a way that the hired hand is not.

This is not imagery drawn from the 23^rd Psalm. It is, rather, imagery taken from the 34^th chapter of Ezekiel. A chapter in which the false shepherds—that is the political elite of God’s people—are judged for leaving the sheep—the people themselves—exposed to enemies and even worse, consuming them. And God pronounces judgment on these bad shepherds—“I am against the shepherds. . . .” God says through the prophet, “I will rescue my sheep from their mouths, so that they may not be food for them.” Then God says he will shepherd his people. He will find them. He will bring them back to the land. God will set up one shepherd, God’s servant David, and David will shepherd the sheep. And God will make with the people a covenant of peace.

That’s what lies behind Jesus self-description. That is what is to inform our understanding of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. When Jesus says he is the Good Shepherd, he says that the bad shepherds ofIsraelare judged with his coming. They have harmed the flock of God’s people and will do so no longer. The Good Shepherd is here. He will gather the sheep into the one fold. He will seek out the natural sheep of the fold and those that come from another. He will gather Jew and Gentile. And there will be one flock and one shepherd.

And how will he gather? How will he rescue? How will he keep his sheep so that no enemy will be able to snatch at them and devour them? He will lay down his life for his sheep. He lays it down of his own accord. And he takes it up again.

Now why does this metaphor continue to matter for us?

This metaphor matters because it does disclose the identity of Jesus. Like all the I am sayings, this one does give us a glimpse of the saving person of our Lord. He is Ezekiel’s good shepherd. The Shepherd who is both God and God’s servant David. He is the one who will gather the sheep.

The metaphor matters because it sets forth the nature of the saving work of our Lord. He will do the gathering, the protecting, the rescuing of the sheep at the great cost of laying down his life. He does so freely, not as a victim of powers beyond his control, but as one who is in control throughout. He lays down his life of his own accord and with the power to take it up again. On this fourth Sunday of Easter we celebrate that he has taken it up again. And because he has, his laying down is not in vain. His cross is not meaningless. His death is not the death of just one more under the reign ofRome. His death, his laying down of his life, is the one great rescuing act of God in which the bad shepherds—both ancient and modern—are judged and all the wolves who would harm the sheep defeated. Because he has laid down his life, the sheep are safe. None shall perish; none shall be snatched from God’s hand.

The metaphor matters because it tells us the truth about ourselves. We’re sheep. Under the misrule of bad shepherds, we have been scattered, lost, and undone. We have been left exposed to enemies that, if they would, would devour us. We are, in other words, helpless. We need to be rescued.

And the good news of the Gospel on this fourth Sunday of Easter is, we have been. The Good Shepherd has come. He has laid down his life and taken it up again. He is gathering his sheep. And in the end, there will be one fold and one shepherd.

And we  Christians mean something specific. We don’t mean Jesus’ soul went to heaven. We mean he rose in his body. “Make no mistake. If he rose at all, it was as his body. If the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules reknit, the amino acids rekindle, the Church will Fall,” wrote the great Lutheran novelist John Updike in his famous poem, Seven Stanzas at Easter. We encountered the sheer physicality of the event last Sunday when we heard Jesus’ challenge to Thomas. “Put your finger here in the marks; put your hand here in my side.”

Whatever else it involved, the resurrection of Jesus was something that really happened to Jesus. The Jew fromNazarethwho was crucified on Friday was alive again on Sunday morning—alive in such a way as he could be seen, heard and touched.

But where is he now? What is he doing? What difference does it make? These are the questions The Gospel lesson for today invites us to weigh.

As the Gospel lesson opens, it is the evening of Easter Day. That morning, some of the disciples—first the women and then some of the men—went  to the tomb only to find it empty. Then Cleopas and his unnamed companion met with a stranger on the way to Emmaus. The stranger who opened to them the Scriptures, causing their hearts to burn, and then took bread and blessed it, broke it and gave it to them. And he ceased to be a stranger.

Now, Cleopas and his friend have gathered with the rest back inJerusalem, late in the evening, and they are talking about what had happened when Jesus himself appeared.

That’s an important point and it is unfortunate that our lectionary reading begins to late to include it.  But I’m including it this morning. While they were talking, the Scriptures say, Jesus appeared. We should immediately notice that it’s important because theEmmaus Roadstory begins similarly. It is as Cleopas and his companion are talking that the Risen One appears and makes to journey along with them. It is as Cleopas and his Companion are talking with the rest of the disciples that the Risen one appears and offers to them his peace.

Luke is, through his story making the same point that the Lord himself makes in Matthew 18, when he says, “When two or more are gathered, there I am in the midst.” The disciples have gathered. They are talking. And Jesus appeared.

A second point to notice is the sheer physicality of the event. The Risen One is intent on convincing them that he is standing before them as a body, not a phantom. “Touch me and see,” he says. And while they are still disbelieving and wondering, he says “Give me some fish.”

This is not merely an emphasis on the reality—the weighty materiality—of the resurrection (though it is that). Luke is also making a point about continuity. The One who was crucified on Friday was really raised on Sunday morning.  Death is not the final and insurmountable enemy. For he has conquered it. He who appeared on the way to Emmaus, who appeared and ate some fish, is He who forgave his tormentors and who committed his spirit to his Father as he died on Friday afternoon. The Risen one rises as he who was crucified—“Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself.”  The Crucified one is Risen, and is so in his body.

This brings us to Luke’s third noticeable point—the Risen Lord is not there in the room with the disciples simply to be marveled at and worshipped (though, of course, he is). He is there to teach them. “These are my words,” he says, as he opens to them the Scriptures. Think about that! “These are my words!”

And then, Luke tells us, he opened their minds to the Scriptures. And again Luke is making two points. The first is, the Scriptures—the Law, the Prophets and the Psalms, or what we would call the Old Testament—find their true meaning in Christ. He is their center; they testify to him. The Old Testament, in other words, is inescapably part of Christian Scripture. And second, Christ is the teacher of the Scriptures. He taught them; apart from his presence with them as the Risen One, they would not understand what they were reading.

There is a third movement, and with this our story ends. Having opened their minds to the Scriptures, to their testimony about him, the Risen Lord goes on to say that the same Scriptures foretell that the Good News of Repentance and forgiveness of sins will be proclaimed to all nations, beginning inJerusalem. And then our lectionary reading ends with the words, “you are the witnesses.” The disciples, in other words, are the fulfillment of this prophecy. They will go, beginning inJerusalem, to tell the Good News of repentance and forgiveness of sins.

We might say, then, that the third movement is one of sending. Having gathered and heard, the disciples are now sent to tell what they have heard. But this message is not something new. The message to which they have been witnesses, is nothing other than the mission ofIsraelcontained inIsrael’s Scriptures, is nothing other than the mission of Chirst, who is the climax of the mission ofIsrael, which is now, the mission of the Church composed of all nations.

Gathering; teaching; sending—a threefold movement, and all centered on the presence of the Risen Lord in the midst of the disciples. With that movement fixed in our minds, we can turn to the questions that we started with today.

Where is Jesus now? He is here with us. Really. Our entire liturgy is structured to remind us all the way along that this is the case. When we gather, we gather in the grace and peace of the Risen Lord. When we read, we end each reading with the words, “This is the Word of the Lord.” Not this was, or this contains, or this might be depending on how you feel about it. This is the Word of the Lord, we say. Why do we say that? Because the Risen Lord appeared to his disciples, opened to them the Scriptures and said, “These are my words.” They still are.

We identify the words of Scripture with the words of the Lord even more when we read the Gospel. We bring the Gospel down in to the nave to remind ourselves that the Lord Jesus has come among us, as one of us. Then the Gospel is announced and we say what? Glory to you Lord Jesus Christ. And when it ends we say, Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ. Not, “Thank you Father Tim for reading to us.” But Thank you Jesus for giving us your words again.

We don’t say This is the Word of the Lord or Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ because they are nice flowery words. We say those words to remind ourselves that the Risen Christ is really here. Really with us. Really making these human words his own words. Really speaking to us.

And then comes the sermon. And the sermon is also the Word of God. That is first of all a word of judgment for the preacher! I have been called by God and set apart by God’s church to bring to you the truth of the Holy Scriptures every week. And that is a responsibility that can be—even should be—frightening. And it is a word of grace. My words, however inadequate, are taken up by the Risen Lord in our midst and he says of them,”These are my words,” and he makes them his, makes them vehicles of his grace and his forgiveness to all of us.

To say with the reformer, Heinrich Bullinger that the preaching of the Word of God is the Word of God is to say two things to listeners, too. And the first thing is a word of judgment. Listen for the Risen Lord! Don’t pick apart the preacher’s grammar. And it is a word of grace. Listen for the Risen Lord, who has in these all-too-human words joined us to announce to us his grace and his forgiveness.

What is the Risen Jesus doing as he takes these words—these human witnesses—and makes them his? He continues to teach us and not simply with a view to mastering content. Rather these human words are taken as vehicles through which He gives us Himself. In these human words, our sins are exposed and judged; in these human words, our sins are forgiven and set aside; in these human words, the promises of God are once again announced, and made real because of he who promises. And he who promises is not the preacher. He who promises is none other than the Risen Lord who told his disciples that he would be present when they gathered; who appeared when they came together; and who opened their minds to the Scriptures to show that they bear witness to him.

What difference does it make? We have talked about gathering in the presence of the Risen One, being taught by the Word of the Risen One.  Now to this third question. Why? Why do we do this? Why do we gather? Why do we listen? The conclusion of the Gospel lesson is, so that we might be sent. You are witnesses to these things.

Sure, Peter, James, Mary Magdalen, Cleopas and whoever else was in that room when Jesus appeared. But also, you, Frances and Phyllis and Don and Lamont. You, like the discples in the room, gathered. Like them, you heard from the risen Lord. Now, like them, you are being sent out into the world.

Again we remind ourselves of our sending at the conclusion of every service when the Lay Reader sends us on our way with the command, “Go forth!” We can only go forth into the world to love and serve the Lord, go forth in the power of the Risen Christ, (there are any number of sending sentences we could use), if we have in fact first met with Christ. We can only go if we have first gathered. We can only go if we have first heard. We can only go if we have been sent in the name of the one who himself was sent by the Father.

And so the mission we have been sent on is not our own. It is another’s. It is the mission of him who called Abraham to get up and go to another land. It is the mission of him who loved the world to the end that he gave his only Son. It is the mission of him who now gives us his Spirit that his mission might continue in and through our witness. You are the witnesses.

The disciples gather. And Jesus is present. The disciples listen. And Jesus says, “These are my words.” The disciples were sent. And Jesus’ mission continues. Amen.

audio is available here.

What does the Gospel for today say not only to all of us, but especially to Robbie and Chelsie and Devon and Chris as they bring Kinglsey to the waters of baptism today? Well, I think we can get there if I start at a very unlikely place: tattoos.

“Dr. Perry, can I ask you something, um, personal? Should I get a tattoo or not ‘cause all my friends have one but my dad says I shouldn’t ‘cause the Bible says I can’t and he says that I should talk to you if I don’t believe him? So I’m talking to you.”

Clearly, the student who asked me was searching for ammunition in a family argument and I was in a no-win situation. Any attempt at nuance would be interpreted as permission; any expression of caution would end the talk. So, after a quick wordless prayer for wisdom, I asked her a question. “I’ll answer you if you answer me. Why do you want to mark your body?”

“I dunno. ‘Cause it’s my body and I want to.”

I wish I could say we moved into a helpful discussion both for the student and for her father of what it means to be made in God’s image, what it means to be gradually conformed to the image of Christ, what it means to be marked by Christ in baptism, and whether that changed how she thought about marking herself. But it didn’t turn out that way.

For my student, as for so many of us, faith is inner. Faith is private. Faith is spiritual. Jesus makes no claims on our visible selves. No claims on the way we use our bodies. “It’s my body,” is the final answer to just about any question of personal or moral significance.

Well, let’s leave my student’s dilemma behind for a few moments and move to the Gospel lesson.

As the second half opens, the disciples are still to be found huddled in a “secure, undisclosed location.”  They had already heard Mary’s report. They had indeed seen Jesus themselves one week earlier. This time, however, Thomas is with them.

Thomas was not with the rest when the Lord first appeared one week earlier and we call him “Doubting Thomas” for the height at which he sets the bar for his assent to the disciples’ report:  “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” A high bar to be sure. But is it fair to label Thomas in such a negative way? Mary and the other disciples had had a physical encounter with Jesus—Mary had laid hold of him. This was no ghost. This was hinged thumbs and toes and pumping heart and windswept hair materiality. Did Thomas ask too much when sought the same experience? Surely not.

Were we to look at how Thomas is described elsewhere in the Gospel, the word “doubting” would never come to our lips. It is this Thomas who grasps the provocative nature of Jesus’ commitment to go back to Jerusalem to face the wrath of the Jewish religious leadership and says to his fellows, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” He is not like Peter, who envisions a battle in which he might fight and might die for the cause. He understands that the sojourn to the tomb of Lazarus in Bethany is a sojourn to Jesus’ own tomb. And he resolves to go anyway. He is Loyal Thomas. It is this Thomas, who alone of the disciples confesses his and his fellows’ ignorance of Jesus’ ultimate destination: “Lord we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” He is not like Phillip, who wants Jesus to show him the Father. He wants to know the way to go. And he wants to see the One who claimed to be the way. He is honest Thomas. And loyal, honest Thomas is the one who, because he is loyal and because he is honest wants to see the wounds. He wants to know in as full a way as Mary. As full a way as Peter. As full a way as Philip. He wants to know that the one who was crucified has indeed triumphed. He wants to know that the hour when his Lord was lifted up on the cross was the hour of his exaltation. The hour when the glory of the only one of that Father was displayed to those had eyes to see and ears to hear. This is no skeptic; this is no atheist searching for an argument; this is no cynic daring the disciples to make him believe. “Unless I see the wounds. Unless I touch him.” These are the words of a wounded lover who dared not hope against the awful weight of the reality of death that, in the midst of the ashes of his loyalty, there was an ember of faith left.

Loyal Thomas, honest Thomas has come, one week after, on the eighth day in the house with the other disciples and the doors were shut. It is loyal Thomas, honest Thomas who confesses: “My Lord and My God” even though—and this point is often overlooked—he never does touch the wounds of the ascending Lord. Of all the disciples, only Thomas believes on hearing the word. Only Thomas believes on sight.

Whom does loyal Thomas confess as Lord and God? Listen to Jesus’ words: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.” Thomas confesses again his loyalty unto death to the one who was crucified, for it is the one who was crucified who is Lord and God. He was crucified in his body. He who hung the stars in place really did hang there on the cross. He  really suffered, really died, was really raised. It is in his humanity, in his wound-bearing body that he presents himself to his Father.

The wounds of Jesus displayed to Thomas, and through him to us, are signs of the reality of the Gospel: that God has come to us as one of us and where we would fight and fail, he has fought and conquered. The wounds are thus no longer signs of his humiliation. They are, in the powerful lyrics of Matthew Bridges’ 1851 hymn, Crown Him with Many Crowns “rich wounds, yet visible above, in beauty glorified.” Jesus can no more put off his wounds than he can put off his body. They are the signs that the Crucified One has triumphed over death; that the Risen One is he who was crucified; that the Reigning One reigns as one who suffered.

This wounded body has triumphed. This one and no other was Lord and God. It is difficult to express the personal weight of Thomas’ words. This is no mere address as we might begin a prayer: “O my Lord and God.” It is still less an exclamation of praise or shock in the same ball park as our “O my God!” It is a confession springing from St. Thomas’ depths “You are my Lord and my God.” And so it is that loyal Thomas, honest Thomas, the first to grasp the cost of Jesus’ redemption, becomes the first to grasp the identity of the wounded one standing alive before him. While the disciples cower, Thomas comprehends that Jesus is in his body, Lord and God.

But this is no mere theological pronouncement. It is that, to be sure, but the personal pronoun gives it even more weight. He is my lord and my God. The one who has always been loyal is now the one who adores and in his adoration, serves the wounded and risen and ascending King.

This is the oath of loyalty to another King. For if, for Thomas, the wounded Jesus is the one true Lord and God, then there could be no competitors for his loyalty.

We do well here to remember that the fourth Gospel came into its final form during the reign of the Emperor Domitian, who reigned from 81-96. There is some debate about whether he actively persecuted Christians and Jews during his reign. The traditional view that his violence was second only to Nero has been modified by more recent scholarship. But all agree that he could be ruthless when presented with opposition or ambition. Historians also have noticed how he signed his decrees. Uniquely, he signed them with the words, “Dominus et deus noster.” Our Lord and God.

John’s readers would have known full well what Thomas was saying. Another Lord and God had claimed him. Another Lord and God had required his life. Another Lord and God had claimed them, too. Whatever Caesar could require, the confession of Lord and God would never come. For Caesar’s authority extended only to the body. Thomas’s Lord and God invited the fealty of both body and soul.

That other Lord and God, ascended in his wounded body, has claimed us too. In the waters of baptism he has marked us as his own. In bread and wine, by his Spirit, he feeds us with his very life. And he says to us as he did to Thomas, “blessed are those who have not seen, yet believe. Stop your doubting; start believing.”

Which brings us back to my student’s dilemma. I hope by now we’re clear that we’re not talking about tattoos, right? We’re talking about how we think about our bodies. If Thomas’ confession is true, our bodies are not our own. They belong to another. They have been marked by another as His in baptism. He bears the marks of his office, his Risen, Ascended body bears the signs of his saving work, to show us that he has claimed us as his own. And if we are his, in some sense, his marks—the marks of his suffering and death—are also to be our marks, lived out in how we use our bodies, that is, in how we live.

And now finally, we can say something I hope of value to Chelsie and Robbie, to Devon and Chris as they bring little Kingsley to the font. In our baptism, we have put on Christ-with-his-wounds. Indeed, there is no other Christ to put on. When you come to the font, you are surrendering Kingsley to the Risen Christ who will claim him—just as he has claimed you—as his own. Kinglsey will belong, from here on, body and soul to the One whose body and soul was given over to death for him. With water and oil, he will be marked as Christ’s own as surely as if he were to be marked with ink.

In a very real way, you will give your son to the Risen One, so that he may give you back a brother, who with you and with St. Thomas and all the host of heaven, name Christ alone as Lord and God.

John Polkinghorne

Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2010

Demonstrating that one can be both faithful and modern in the practice of Christian faith has been the driving concern of John Polkinghorne’s large publishing record, which has mainly centered on the relationships between science and religion for several decades.  As a theoretical physicist and Anglican priest, the bulk of his work has skewed toward the academic end of the spectrum. His new book, however, is a welcome turn to the popular.

In this book, originally published in the UK by SPCK (2010) under the title Encountering Scripture, Polkinghorne offers a simple, accessible understanding of the key themes and contents of the Christian Bible that is at once faithful and modern.

Testing Scripture is laid out straightforwardly, with opening chapters giving an overview of just what is meant by Scripture (chapter 1) and a short argument that the Bible initiates and contains a process of theological development that did not end with the closure of the Christian canon. Even the highest view of Scripture as a species of divine communication must admit, says Polkinghorne, that Scripture has to be received and interpreted, that that process is always ongoing, and as a result the results of reading are never entirely fixed. So it is that a modern reader can have a very different understanding of Genesis 1 than a pre-critical one, and yet both are faithful readers of Scripture.

The remaining chapters turn to the Scriptures themselves, beginning with a reflection on the creation accounts, continuing with good advice on how to acknowledge the presence of ambiguity and even darkness in the pages of Holy Scripture, and concluding with chapters on the Old Testament, the Gospels, Paul’s letters and the later New Testament. Here, readers will find—among other things—sensitive and straightforward suggestions about how to understand the two creation accounts, how to deal with much of the violence that permeates the pates of the Old Testament, and sensitive treatments of both the virginal conception and the resurrection of Jesus.

Testing Scripture is an important book because it represents a challenge to a very unlikely set of bedfellows, namely, the New Atheists and those biblical obscurantists who together agree with David Hume’s insistence that one has to choose between reason and faith. While there is very little in the book that will be regarded as controversial by most readers, the fact that it is Polkinghorne—whose CV will survive the sneers of the most dogged Ditchkins disciple—who writes does give it considerable weight.

That Polkinghorne writes to a popular and broad audience is also to be commended. Hopefully, his book will remind many that in the midst of an increasingly shrill shouting match about the relationship of religion and science, faith and reason, a reasonable faith can be embraced.

I cannot begin to describe how breaking the next few months were. Being expected to walk in to a place that, for all intents and purposes, had rejected me and pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t produced an incredible amount of anxiety. I had so identified with the job-I even lived right next door-that I could not conceive of myself outside it. And now, it was gone. Where was I? I was lost.

In the midst of all that struggle, the Watoto children’s choir came to campus to sing. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. Watoto is a village for children orphaned by HIV/AIDS in Uganda. A village where they are raised, educated, taught a trade, and rescued from a life of poverty and premature death.

The children of Watoto are children who have seen death full in the face. They are children who have far more right than I-newly looking at an extended period of unemployment-to be angry at the world of adults, whose mistakes and sins had visited consequences upon them for no fault of their own. Far more angry than I-who had over identified with a job—with the world in general for giving them the rawest of deals. Far more angry than I-lost in my feelings of self-pity-with God whose plan, if he had one at all, seemed to have left them long behind.

And yet, they were happy. They sang. And when they sang the joy radiated from their faces and through their words. This is the refrain of one song they sang to us: I am not forgotten. I am not forgotten. I am not forgotten. God knows my name. He knows my name.

They were still the orphans of HIV/AIDS. They were still struggling toreach a level of prosperity that is well beneath what most of us enjoy. Nothing in their objective status had changed because of that song. But God knew their name. And that was enough.

And I knew then that God knew my name too.

Did I get a job the next day? No. I was out of work for over a year. Did my struggles end? No. I still had to get up and go back day after day until the school year was over. And once it was over, I had to get up and not go back. Both the going and the not going were very, very hard. Nothing was objectively made easier by hearing those orphaned children singing that  song. But God knew my name. And I knew that God knew. And that madea difference.

Job losses, deaths of loved ones, serious illness-all of us can point to significant anxiety producing events in our lives. What makes them loom so large that they impinge upon our relationships with our families, our friends?

Well, with all this newfound time on my hands, I began to reflect and read about anxiety. One book I re-read was by the Lutheran theologian Ted Peters. It was called, Sin: Radical Evil in Soul and Society. It is Peters’ conviction-and I think he is right-that the significant lifealtering events produce anxiety because they force us more than other events to confront our mortality. They force us to confront the fact that we will die. And not only will we die, but the world will continue on as though we had never been.

I don’t know that that is true in every case. But it was certainly true in mine. Losing my job forced me to confront my own replace-ability. Walking into school and seeing the place get along without me set in front of me the inconsequential nature of my being. It placed before me the fact that the last such departure would be permanent and while a few would miss me, I would be forgotten quickly and the world would continue on.

No doubt that’s exactly what the disciples were thinking on that first Easter morning. The one on whom their hopes and dreams had rested; the one whom they had been convinced was David’s heir, the promised one, who would remove Rome and restore the glory of Israel had been crushed. He was dead. And from death, there was no coming back.

Few would miss him. His disciples would, of course. But now they had to think about who would put food on the table. Now that had to wonder whether the blood-vengeance of the Jewish elite and the Roman governor had been sated or whether it would come looking for them. Would Matthew go back to collecting taxes? Peter and Andrew, James and John-back to their nets? Would Simon the Zealot, having been deceived by this revolutionary Jesus, find another around whom to hang his hopes for political liberation? All these questions would push the memory of Jesus even amongst those closest to him to the margins. They had to forget now and get on with life.

His family would miss him-even if they were a little embarrassed by his eccentricity. Even if they had desperately wanted him to just come home, take up the family business, and settle down to a quiet life. Even if they did not understand just what he was doing tramping around the Galilee with a rag tag few dozen young men and women, many with their own questionable pasts. They would miss him. But the death that claimedhim would eventually claim them too. And soon, he would recede into themists of time and be forgotten.

And the anxiety provoked by his death-even it would soften over time. Until the day when his disciples and his family whether felled by disease or age or the unnatural interventions of the powerful, they each joined the one they named Meesiah on the far side of forgetfulness,swallowed up in the anonymity of time.

And then, Mary-Mary who loved him more than the rest-burst into the grief heavy room with her announcement: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we do not know where they have laid him!”

And Mary with Peter and John and maybe some of the rest ran back to the tomb to see just what was going on. What were they thinking? Could they not leave him alone? Could they not leave us alone? They won. Caiaphas, you and your goons had your way. Pilate, you washed your hands and let your soldiers be as sadistic as they wished. You won. Why can’t you let him be in his grave and us be to face whatever future we can rebuild.

They were lost. And the fact that they were lost must have weighed on them as they ran to the grave to see what further humiliation had to be heaped upon them before the whole depressing affair could be put behind them.

John got there first and looked in; Peter, being Peter, pushed past him and went right into the cave. They saw. John even believed. But his belief didn’t go all the way to understanding. And having seen, they went home. They went back to their brooding. They went back to trying to make sense of their lives.

But one did not.

Mary-first to find the tomb empty. Mary stayed behind and wept. Mary could not yet move on. Mary was still lost. Lost -lost in the loss of her Lord. And she wept.

Not willing to accept that yet another humiliation had been heaped upon her and her Lord, she looked into the tomb. But it was empty no longer. Two white-robed messengers, now sitting on the corpse-bed, asked her why she wept. “They have taken away my Lord,” she sobbed. He is lost and so am I. And she turned and saw one whom she thought was the gardener. And he asked her the same question: “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”

“Sir,” whatever respect and courage she has left is now summoned, “if you have taken him, tell me where he is and I will tend to him.” If I must be lost, if I must be undone, if I must go the way of my Lord into the qrave, then at least let me go with him, be lost with him, be undone beside him.

And Jesus said to her, “Mary.”

The risen Christ remembered her name. The One who had indeed gone ahead of her into death remembered! Not only was he not forgotten, but neither was she. Her name on his lips, his risen lips. “Mary.”

Death was no longer the great barrier.

Mary

Death as no longer the final resting place of all to be forgotten.

Mary.

Life had won.

Mary.

Death had been defeated.

Mary.

In the uttering of her name, the Risen One found his first apostle. His first messenger. Not only did he restore her to herself, but he commissioned her to proclaim the good news. Go and tell my brothers, he says, Mary, you are not lost; Mary you are found. Mary, your life is not wasted; Mary you have a job to do.

Mary, of course, is not the only name he remembers and presents before his father. When Peter’s last act was to deny his Lord, the Lord remembered his name too. When Stephen so identified with his Lord that he made Jesus’ dying prayers his own, the Lord remembered and stood to welcome his faithful witness.

And when we who have been united to him are about to be undone by the fear of death, The Risen One remembers our name. He remembers our name and he speaks it. And in speaking it, he refuses the last word that death hopes to write over our lives. In speaking it, he promises that life-his risen life given to us by his Spirit in bread and wine-that life will have the last word.

I am not forgotten. I am not forgotten. I am not forgotten. God knowsmy name. He knows my name.