Scripture: Luke 24:36b-48
While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them,
“Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing
a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your
hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a
ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said
this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving
and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave him a
piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you
—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms
must be fulfilled.” Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said
to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the
third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name
to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.
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For those of you watching on YouTube, you may have noticed that I broke into John Oliver’s void.
Well, fun fact, it’s not actually his: in fact, anyone who specializes in telling the truth to power has access to this infinite, empty void, it’s just that most pastors either a) have a local congregation and prefer to use their own sanctuaries instead, or b) pretty comfortable with the power and privilege that they possess, and not likely to speak against it any time soon.
So, because I’m a completely powerless pastor without a sanctuary to my name, and also someone who gets just….really annoyed at power and privilege, my consolation prize is that I get to use the void!
But why would I want to do that, you may be wondering? Why not just…deliver a regular sermon.
Well, truth be told, I’ve increasingly become of the opinion that we need a radical change in the way that we do church. Most of you who might be watching today are either familiar with or actively a part of the Unfinished Community; which is a new church community I’ve been working on that is trying to re-envision what church could look like as a truly international, truly universal community.
But I think we need to go beyond that.
You see, as much as I love preaching (and if you know me, you know how much I love preaching), the truth is that the pulpit has historically been at best a conduit for what Dr. King disparagingly called the “White Moderate,” and at worst a bludgeon in the service of white supremacy, oppression, and evil. The pulpit is something that has power in our society, but it’s not a power that has always easily lent itself to the purpose for which it was designed; to be the arm of the prophets, the oratorial scalpel which cuts the strings of the powerful, makes rulers shudder in their gilded thrones, and declares God’s freedom as an invective towards all those who covet wealth and power.
That’s what preaching is supposed to be about; to do as a mentor of mine once suggested and “comfort the afflicted while afflicting the comfortable.”
And the honest truth is that, largely because us pastors have both done a terrible job at practicing what we preach and a terrible job at keeping current with the culture around us, we haven’t done that for a very long time.
In fact, barring Dr. King himself, can you remember the last time you really heard a pastor preach a great, powerful sermon about how the hungry will be fed, the prisoners will be freed, and justice will be done? Can you remember the last preacher you saw that turned their eyes to the people in power and told them that their way of doing business is incompatible with a society that practices mercy, advocates for justice, and loves love?
I remember the first time I saw a sermon like that. Of course, almost no one who saw it would have necessarily called it that, least of all the man who delivered it. But I remember watching it, as a fresh-faced and dramatically overweight teen in that bygone era of the early 2000’s, and wondering just why my pastor never did something like that.
I wondered why my pastor was judging me, while Jon Stewart was preaching to me.
And over time, as my church rejected me, and the culture of Christianity moved further into the abyss of judgmental rage and impotent screaming that has come to define it’s public presentation to so many today, I saw more and more people looking to comedians for the same sort of moral education and calling to justice that pastors were always supposed to deliver. The comedians were delivering the message that the Bible was screaming out, while the preachers were advocating for increasingly horrible things:
Judgement, othering, isolation, hate. From the pulpit came a message that God’s people are defined by a “straight and narrow” path, that only a few are good enough, that justice is reserved for those precious, pious, and self-important few who can maintain their purity, separate from the world, long enough for Jesus to snatch them away like a poolboy pulling errant leaves off the surface of the water.
At the same time, from the comedians came a message that there can be a better world. That justice is coming and that right soon, that the powerful ought to be made low, the first made last, and that kindness and compassion should be the law of the land.
And that there’s nothing wrong with having a laugh and dropping an f-bomb or two along the way.
That’s…that’s what the pulpit was supposed to be.
So, if you’re watching, that’s what this is all about. That’s why instead of robing up and filming myself in some nondescript sanctuary, I’ve grabbed my computer, broken in, and occupied a small corner of the void.
Because the Christian church, and us as leaders, have been wrong. And the comedians, and the culture that followed them looking for messages of hope and a mildly irreverent smile along the way, have been right.
And while I can’t stand here and speak for all Christianity everywhere, I can apologize for my part in getting it wrong so far, and promise to do my best to help us all to listen to the voice of God which can be just as fun as it can be justice-focused and serious, as we try to go forward together.
So today, we’re presented with what happened to the entirely freaked out and confused disciples just after the resurrection. Today’s reading just shows them standing around, but if we look at the parallel story in the gospel of John we can get a little more clarity on what was going on.
The disciples were hiding in a house, inside a locked room, freaking terrified.
This of course makes sense when you consider that what they had just experienced must have been absolutely terrifying.
These people were followers of Rabbi Yeshua b’Nzareth, an educated and respected teacher and leader from the Hillel School of the Pharisees, a man who despite his…shall we say…very pointed remarks about wealth, power, and privilege, was not some random unknown street preacher. He was a man who, though he shunned it, had a place among the ranks of the religious elite.
He had spent time with the religious leaders of the Sanhedrin, tax collectors, agents of Rome and agents of the Jewish state. Divinity aside, this was a man of not inconsiderable station and power himself.
And they had just witnessed as that state beat him mercilessly, forced him to march through the streets carrying a terrible weight, forced a crown of thorns down on his head while mocking him, and then nailed him to some wood at the garbage dump just outside of town where they left him to hang until dead.
Then, after he had been buried for a few days…his body up and disappears! Sure, the women had told them that Jesus had come back to life just as he had explicitly told them all he would do, but these were manly men of Christ, and they clearly knew better than to believe what they called in verse 11 and “idle tale.”
No..if this could happen to someone as well known and well-connected as the great Rabbi, would the leaders of the community have the slightest qualm about doing the same to a bunch of upstart fishermen?
Heck, they could be outside the door right now!
They were utterly and completely terrified of what could happen to them.
And it’s into this space, this mindset of overwrought, pants-wetting terror masquerading as hyper-masculine confidence, that Jesus just…appears.
Now you can imagine that the Resurrected Jesus probably knew exactly what the disciples were feeling. And even if he didn’t, he probably could have guessed, right? Back in Matthew chapter 7 he said, “Knock and the door will be opened for you,” so we can reasonably assume that he knew how doors worked.
He didn’t need to spontaneously appear in the middle of a room full of terrified men.
But he did anyways.
And when he appeared, he didn’t do a blessed thing to mitigate their fear.
I mean, “do not be afraid” is said so commonly in the Bible that it’s almost God’s catchphrase, but here…where people were unquestioningly terrified?
Nope. Doesn’t say it.
Instead, he says “Peace be with you.”
And when they freak right out, when they basically just start screaming and gibbering like a bunch of baboons, still he doesn’t say “do not be afraid.”
No…he asks them…”Why are you afraid?” Like there was no reason for them to be scared in the first place.
And then he goes on to show them the truth. To show them everything, in clear-cut gory detail.
Take note that there is no “Doubting Thomas” in the Gospel of Luke; no disciple arrogantly demanding that Jesus prove himself. Jesus does what he does here openly, slapping them in the face with the reality they were so desperate to avoid.
And they did want to avoid it. Jesus being definitely dead and now definitely not dead presented them with a bit of a problem.
You see, Jesus’ life and ministry provided the disciples a place in the sun; a difficult life, to be sure, but one with purpose, with meaning, and one largely devoid of threats beyond those that were usual to religious disciples in that time and place.
Jesus’ death meant that their purpose had been taken, their livelihood and future plans all wrecked, but there still remained some small chance for them to fade into obscurity, to quietly recede into the background of history and live out the remainder of their days in some small border town in the deep south, off towards Idumea, Perea, Egypt or Jordan or something.
But Jesus back from the dead, resurrected bodily and standing before them? That could only mean one thing:
They were all going to die. Horribly.
Because when the truth of the resurrection is laid undeniably in front of you, how can you not believe? How can you not follow the risen Christ when he literally blipped into existence right in front of you when you and your friends were standing together in a locked room, showed you the holes in his hands and his feet, then told you that he was sending you out into the world?
Of course they were afraid! How could they not be? They knew what had to come next.
Jesus, now no mere teacher but unquestionably divine is standing there, speaking the word of God to you in terms so firm and clear as to command nothing short of complete assent, telling you that are going to go. That you must go. That you can’t not go.
Because you have been witnesses to these things.
And what has been seen, cannot be unseen.
When we’re confronted with God’s truth, the painful, difficult, terrifying factuality of the world around us, we want to hide away in our locked rooms, close our sanctuary doors, and pretend that God is just as white and terrified as we are.
When we see that the world is filled with suffering, affording some of us security at the expense of others, we want to pretend that God calls us to sit in our pews and pray, singing spiritual songs and eating ham buns while waiting quietly for the trump to sound and take us away to our reward.
We want practical concerns, like escorting the mighty down from their thrones, lifting up the oppressed and suffering, challenging injustice, feeding the hungry, and freeing the prisoner; we want these things to be for someone else, because they put us in direct, risky conflict and confrontation with the halls of power and authority.
If we challenge the dangers of today, there is no guarantee of our safety tomorrow.
If Jesus stays dead, there’s still a chance we can slip away into the sunset, and find a nice quiet life somewhere, and not have to put our lives on the line.
But Christ is risen, and we are witnesses to these things.
And being a witness to these things requires us to see the pierced hands and bloodied side. It requires us to confront the gory details of all that we’d be much more comfortable not knowing.
It requires us to see. To actualy be witnesses to these things.
*pause*
You know, I was going to cut here, to a clip. Bodycam footage of the shooting…the…execution, of Adam Toledo by the Chicago Police Department. I thought it’d be a great moment, a powerful moment where we could all come together in horror at the true reality that we’re called to stand against. I even had the clip queued up and ready but…in the end, I just can’t.
Because, seeing this…it wrecks me. It hurts in ways that I don’t have words for. As a white man living in and around this society I have seen this clip, and others like it just….so many times, knowing it’ll never be me. And as strongly as I hurt seeing it, as clearly as I can see my own children’s face looking back from this boy’s terrified gaze in those last, precious few moments, I know that my pain pales in comparison to that of the communities that know this feeling intimately and personally, and who experience it daily.
I won’t run the risk of forcing them to re-live that on my account.
I’ve put the link down in the description though. If you haven’t seen it, most especially if this experience isn’t something familiar to you, I personally feel you should see it. We should all be witnesses to these terrible things, because what we are paying witness to is the same bloody, broken reality that Jesus so bluntly dropped in the middle of the disciples on that fateful, confusing day, in that locked room.
This murdered child, lying on the pavement clutching his side like Longinus just stabbed him, is the side of the Lord, cut open.
Each one of these murders is another nail, piercing the hands and feet of the savior.
The suffering of this community is a crown of thorns that we have placed there.
And every moment that goes by that we’re not helping is another moment that we stay, hiding in that locked room, terrified that Christ might actually be risen.
And before you get the bright idea that I’m suggesting candlelight vigils, letters of quiet protest, or the inevitable tide of “thoughts and prayers,” let me stop that right here and now.
We are capable of doing so much more. So much more.
Church congregations, most especially old, white churches, wield perhaps the greatest concentration of social power in the American culture, even today, even as we are declining.
When old, white churches come together and insist upon change, change has a funny way of happening, because the American halls of power tremble when white voices ring out in the name of Jesus.
We just haven’t done it in a while, so a lot of us have forgotten that we can.
But if, like me, you hold out little hope for the power of any group of voices to change the cynical hearts of those who have clutched onto power like a drowning man to a life raft that is also coincidentally made out of money, the rest assured that there are still practical steps we can take in our own neighborhoods, today, using all the power and tools of the simple, quiet, neighborhood church, that can make a difference in this situation.
Have you ever paid much attention to prayer chains?
If you don’t know what they are, prayer chains are these interconnected networks of communication that run through these old, white congregations, and they tie everyone together in near-instantaneous communication with each other for the express purpose of sharing the prayer needs, or getting word out in an emergency.
So, if something happens to one person, the call goes out from Myrtle, to Ethel, to Mavis, to Peggy, and on down the line through the grand assembly of that most powerful, untapped army in America.
Church grandmas.
And before you know it, you’ve got a casserole at your door, or someone’s baked a pie, or something. Help has arrived, and all along the way everyone’s been praying.
But…what if, and follow me on this, we used this tremendous ability for more than just connecting crises to casseroles?
What if we connected all our church grandmas into a police-brutality rapid-response chain?
Imagine that. A connected network full of very old, very white church grandmas, just lying in wait.
You can laugh if you’d like, but can you imagine what that would actually look like? What that could actually accomplish?
Imagine, if officer not-so-friendly rolled up on a black motorist for no reason and, as he’s getting pulled over, that motorist shoots off a quick text to the church rapid-response chain. Before this cop knows what’s happening, a mob of grannies emerges from the bushes, using their disapproving glares and judgmental stares for a far more worthy cause than intimidating horny teens or trying to silently judge members of the LGBTQIA+ community.
Imagine if that officer, instead of operating with functional anonymity, had to conduct his dirty business in front of his retired kindergarten teacher who once saw him pee his pants at school, his mom’s old friend who accidentally walked into his bedroom that one time, and the Sunday school teacher who caught him in the bushes with the neighbor girl when he ought to have been in class…imagine if they were all there. Just staring. Quietly judging. Reminding him with their withering glares that they know things, while he is trying to violently abuse a black man for no good reason.
Don’t you think that would do something?
Don’t you think we could at least do something?
The good news here is, of course, that we can. We can do something.
God’s peace, Christ’s peace, the peace that was bidden to us all way back then, is still with us. We carry that peace with us everywhere we go, and we always have the ability to share it.
You, in what you do every day, have the peace of Christ with you, and you can share it with others!
Just remember that the peace of Christ isn’t some abstract thing; it’s not a handshake shared between fellow believers huddled in their sanctuaries while the world passes them by outside. The peace of Christ isn’t a prayer asking God to do something that we feel unable to, or that we are too scared to.
The peace of Christ isn’t some fragile thing that needs to be protected, some honorable thing that needs to be defended, or some high-and-mighty thing of such purity that it can’t be touched.
The peace of Christ is brokenness laid bare before us, which we are called to bring together again.
The peace of Christ is suffering made plain to us, which we are called t to heal.
The peace of Christ is the oppressed pushed down in front of us, which we are called to to uplift.
The peace of Christ is a community of people living at the barrel of a gun, just waiting for us to stand up in front of it boldly, as Christ called the disciples to do.
So I won’t say “don’t be afraid,” because fear is the recognition that God’s great works are at hand.
I won’t say “don’t be afraid” because, as it did for the disciples, what we fear for ourselves might well come to pass when we follow the path of Christ.
I won’t say “don’t be afraid,” because we’re supposed to be afraid now. We’re supposed to be afraid of suffering, we’re supposed to be afraid of power, and we’re supposed to be afraid of those who would hurt the weak to better themselves.
Instead, I will simply say, “peace be with you.”
And as we leave these locked rooms, step out of our sanctuaries and into the danger, may the Peace of Christ, which passes all understanding, which makes no right sense but somehow, some way, still sees the moral arc of the universe keep bending ever so slightly towards justice, be with us all as we do.
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