JAMES CAMPBELL
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Dark, locked rooms are a specialty of the Risen Christ.

4/19/2020

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​SEEING IS BELIEVING
April 19, 2020 
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
John 20:19-31
 
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “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 week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.
 
 
 
When I was growing up my church taught me that doubt was the mortal enemy of the soul.  Doubt was an existential threat to our complex system of belief.  Each stone of doctrine was built upon the other.  And because each stone held up the other, the house of faith was actually very fragile.  If you pulled out one brick, the whole thing fell apart.  
 
And that is exactly what happened to me.  I began to have doubts about all kinds of things.  And when I finally pulled out one of those bricks, my house of faith collapsed.  At first, it seemed like a terrible tragedy.  But in the end, I came to see that the demolition of that system actually saved my spiritual life.  It made Jesus less of a concept and more of a lived experience.   And it was blessed doubt that paved the way.
 
Today is celebrated by many of the world’s Christians as “St. Thomas Sunday.”  You may know him better as Doubting Thomas.  Doubting Thomas is among the questionable cast of characters that are part of the Holy Week and Easter stories.  There was Judas who betrayed him; Peter, who denied him; and Thomas, who wouldn’t believe that Jesus was alive until he had seen it with his own eyes. 
 
John reports that on the evening of Resurrection day, the disciples were hiding behind locked doors, for “fear of the Jews.” A more accurate interpretation of that phrase “for fear of the Jews” would be “for fear of the religious authorities” because that is exactly who is being referenced here.  Think about it.  The disciples were Jews too.  And they were not afraid of their families and friends and neighbors.  They were afraid of those religious authorities who had conspired with the Romans to put Jesus to death.  I point this out because the Gospel of John has sometimes fueled anti-Semitism, but only when Christians ignore the Jewish-ness of Jesus and his followers. 
 
So, there they were, locked away and fearing for their lives, when Jesus suddenly appeared.  And his very first words to them were “Shalom” – “peace be with you.”  Notice the striking lack of recrimination.  His first words were not “What are you doing behind locked doors?” or “Didn’t you believe I would rise again?”  His friends are lost in grief and failure, doubt and denial.  And Jesus says to them: “Peace be with you.”  I hope you can remember that lack of recrimination the next time you are lost in doubt and denial.
 
So, Jesus appeared, with peaceful words, and showed them the scars in his hands and feet and side.  But Thomas was not there when all this happened.  I wonder where he was.  Wasn’t he afraid too?     
 
When Thomas returned, the disciples exclaimed: “We have seen the Lord!”  But Thomas, an apparent party-pooper, rained on their Easter parade by proclaiming: “Unless I put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
 
And it this statement that damns Thomas in many people’s eyes.  They see his demands for proof as a sign of weakness and lack of faith.  Maybe.  But I sometimes wonder if something nobler wasn’t going on?  Was it just doubt or stubbornness?  Or could it be that Thomas simply refused to just take someone else’s word for the truth.  He wanted to experience Truth for himself, like his friends had.  He wanted to see the Risen Christ with his own eyes.  
 
And if that is the case; of that was his motivation, then Thomas is the spiritual father of any of us who have ever set out on this journey of faith, unwilling to just take someone else’s word for what we’re supposed to believe.  Maybe Thomas was the original Congregationalist, insisting on the validity of his own experience of Jesus Christ.  
 
A week later, the disciples were once again closed up in a room.  Even though they had seen the Resurrected Jesus just days before, apparently their fear had gotten the better of them again.  And quite frankly, isn’t that a relief to know?  Even for the disciples, who walked and talked with the Risen Lord, the highs and lows of faith were natural.  Like us, they could go from confidence to fear in the blink of an eye.  
 
But Jesus appeared to them again.  And this time, Thomas was with them.  Once again, the very first words out of Jesus’s mouth were “Shalom” – “peace be with you.”  Then Jesus turned to Thomas and said: “Go ahead Thomas, put your finger here and see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it in my side.  Don’t doubt, but believe.”
 
There is no indication in this story that Thomas actually did such a gruesome thing.  Just seeing Jesus for himself was enough, provoking Thomas to make the most profound confession of faith in the entire New Testament.  He looked at the Risen Christ and exclaimed: “My Lord and my God.”  
 
Blessed Doubting Thomas showed us that a mature faith is not based on what someone else tells us to think.  It is not based on the creeds or confessions of the church, as important as they may be.  And faith is certainly not intellectual assent to someone else’s point of view.  Faith is about meeting Jesus in the everydayness of our lives.  And a good, healthy dose of doubt is very often the way we get there.
 
Doubt.  It comes easy these days.  We doubt that life will ever return to normal.  We doubt the wisdom of those who lead us.  We doubt the resilience of the economy.  We doubt our financial futures.  We doubt that our family systems can survive such pressures.  And we doubt that our faith is strong enough for this test.  We are suddenly locked away in a room called fear. 
 
But dark, locked rooms are a specialty of the Risen Christ.  He suddenly appears, not because we have such strong faith, but simply because we need him.  He shows us his hands and his feet and his side.  He invites us to touch him and experience the truth for ourselves.  There is never recrimination for our doubts or our fears or our anger or our confusion.  Instead, he simple speaks the words we and this whole world so desperately need to hear: “Shalom.  Peace be with you.”
 

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If there is any blessing in this empty church on Easter Sunday, it’s this powerful reminder: one does not come here to find the Risen Christ.

4/19/2020

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A STRIPPED DOWN EASTER
Easter Sunday, April 12, 2020
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 16:1-8
 
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’ When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’ So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. 
 
 
One of my treasured possessions is an antique secretary that my mother gave to me many years ago, when I graduated from college.  This secretary was not passed down from one generation of her family to the next.  Instead, it came to us like most of the things in our house.  It was the product of my mom’s keen eye and her absolute devotion to a good bargain.
 
She dragged it home one day and proudly announced that she had only paid $15 for it.  I remember that my father scoffed when he saw it because, as he said, it didn’t look like it was worth $15.  And quite frankly, it didn’t.  That secretary was covered by 15 layers of black paint.  But like I said, my mom had a keen eye.  And she was sure that underneath all of those layers something simpler and far more beautiful would be found.  The harsh chemical process of stripping it down would reveal that.  
 
Stripped down.  That’s how life feels right now, doesn’t it?  Trauma has a way of stripping us all down to what is essential.  Crisis clarifies what really matters; and in the process, reveals to us what is truly beautiful.  In the midst of this world-wide pandemic, what really matters, we have discovered, are our relationships and families and shelter and food and community.  These things are suddenly no longer the afterthoughts of our perfect lives.  And all those superfluous layers which we think are so important – our preoccupations with political wrangling and social climbing and mindless spending are suddenly exposed for what they really are – just so many layers of old paint.  
 
Stripped away.  Now I will be the first to admit that I don’t necessarily like this process of stripping away.  And I especially don’t like what has become of Easter this year with everything stripped away.  You see, when it comes to Easter, I like all those layers.  I love the drama and the pageantry and the music and the flowers and the churches full of people.  But this year, I proclaim the empty tomb in an empty church, to people huddled in fear behind locked doors.  And I don’t like it.  
 
But I also suspect, in this odd and disconcerting time, that we are now as close as ever we can be to that first Easter.  That first Easter was not marked by full churches and glorious music and festive brunches.  Instead, its hallmark was something called “terror and amazement.”
 
The Gospel of Mark is the oldest gospel and thus Mark’s account of the Resurrection is the first.  But it’s a bit misleading to even say that Mark has an account of the Resurrection, because what he really offers us is a description of its aftermath.   And his account is really short.  It’s only eight verses long and has a very unsatisfying ending.  Who ends a gospel with fear?
 
Mark’s ending was so unsettling to some anonymous monks in the Middle Ages that they added several other triumphant conclusions to this Gospel.  You can read both of them in your Bibles; along with footnotes that indicate that neither of these happier endings is original.  Meaning that Mark meant to end his Gospel with a very human reaction to trauma.   
 
Early on Sunday morning, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome went to the tomb, carrying the spices they had purchased in order to anoint the body of Jesus.  As they walked along, they wandered out loud who would roll the stone away for them.  But when they arrived, the stone had already been moved.  And that was unsettling.  But more unsettling still was the presence of an odd young man, dressed in a white robe, and sitting on the right side of the slab where the body of Jesus had been.  And that just frightened them. The young man must have seen their fear and so he tried to calm them. “Do not be alarmed,” he said, “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.  He has been raised.  He is not here.  Look, this is the place they laid him.  But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him…”
 
The young man’s speech didn’t seem to work because, we are told, immediately afterwards the women were seized with what the Greek text calls “tromos” and “ecstasis” – trauma and ecstasy. I imagine bodies shaking, minds reeling, mouths dry, cold sweat – all the classic signs of being terrified.  They were terrified on Easter Sunday.  
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As I said, the Gospel of Mark never presents the Risen Jesus to us.  The other Gospels do, claiming that people actually saw him - in the garden, on the Road to Emmaus, in a locked room.  They not only saw him, but they touched him and ate with him and listened to him. But in Mark, there is only a promise.  The young man who told them that Jesus had been raised also told them where they could see that for themselves.  He said: “Go tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there (out there in the future, in the living of your lives, in your everyday) you will see him, just as he told you.”  
 
And so they set out on a journey into the rest of their lives, into the unknown of tomorrow, into a world dominated by a hostile Empire that crucified their Lord.  They went, hoping, wondering if this outlandish promise could possibly be true.  But they went, because the promise was all they really had.  
 
That’s all we really have too.  All the other layers of what it means to celebrate Easter have been stripped away.  Even coming to church has been taken from us.  But we are not bereft this Easter.  We are not left on our own this Easter.  Like the women, we have the promise that the Risen Christ goes before us into whatever it is that frightens us.  It is there that we will find him.  
 
Perhaps this year we can actually grab hold of that promise.  Because if this were just like any other Easter, with bonnets and brunches and chocolates and friends, would we really hear that message?  Would we come to church and leave unmoved by a message meant to move the whole world?  It’s possible.  All those layers might get in the way and obscure the truth that is meant to set us free. 
 
If there is any blessing in this empty church on Easter Sunday, it’s this powerful reminder: one does not come here to find the Risen Christ.  He was not in the tomb.  And he will not be contained in this or any other sanctuary.   He’s out there, ahead of us.  He’s out there, in the days of our isolation and fear and boredom yet to be.  And he is out there, in those days beyond this crisis.  There we will see him.  
 
We are left to imagine that an empty tomb and a strange young man did not quite convince the women that Christ was alive.  It was their going to Galilee that did that.  They got there to find what we find - that there is no place on this whole earth, no fear so stark, no valley so deep that the Risen Jesus will not appear when we need him most.   And when he does, we join the faithful women in proclaiming: The Lord is risen; he is risen indeed!
 

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"The glory of God is the human person fully alive."
Saint Irenaeus of Lyon, 2nd century