Holy Soil

A sermon based Psalm 24 and Ephesians 1:1-2 preached on May 7th, 2017

It won’t be long now that we will have a Community Gardens in Barboursville. Just a block this way, along Depot Street, the field has been tilled. The soil has been stirred. Filled again with carbon dioxide. It’s breathing again. This is how land becomes ripe for growth. When its lungs can expand.

After years of sitting there, breathless and dense—compacted—a boring, lifeless, barren field is now being readied for cultivation. Readied for life. Readied for resurrection. Resurrection is what happens when what was once buried deep in the ground—breathless—comes to life again. When what was once stuck in place, unable to move or grow, is given vitality, meaning, and purpose. What was once fallow and inconsequential becomes vibrant and dynamic and life-giving once more. Resurrection is the process of readying the soil of our hearts and minds and lives so that we can grow, cultivate something new and holy among us—with God’s help. This is the Message of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.


Today, we’re diving into this life-giving letter written to the young church in Ephesus. This letter is only six chapters long. Any one of you can read it in a space of fifteen minutes, but don’t let its short length fool you. The book of Ephesians is nothing less than a Christian Opus. It’s been compared over and over again to a piece of music that stirs the soul to life. Many have said about Ephesians that it’s the one book in all of scripture that has woken them up to Jesus-alive, God-alive. One man said about Ephesians that through reading it, studying its words,

he saw a new world…Everything was new. I had a new outlook, new experiences, new attitudes to other people. I loved God. Jesus Christ became the Center of everything…I had been quickened; I was really alive!

Ephesians was John Calvin’s favorite letter. It seems as though nobody can read Ephesians without being moved to wonder and worship. What’s more, Ephesians is, for our time, the most contemporary and relevant book in the entire Bible. Its words—the promises made inside of it—have much for us in our current context. It speaks of community in a world of disunity. It promises reconciliation in time of estrangement and hostility. All of these 1st Century notions are also 21st Century ones.


But, what makes the letter to the Ephesians so important for us—for we who call ourselves the Church of Jesus Christ—is that it doesn’t just offer us words of comfort and hope. It doesn’t simply encourage us to endure in this life, to hunker down in prayer and keep on believing. Instead, Ephesians gives the Church an action plan. It’s here to encourage us to become movers and shakers, to get in on the project of God. Pastor Eugene Peterson call this holy endeavor “Practicing Resurrection.” In a sense, Ephesians tells us what to do with Easter. Its main point is nothing less than the entire point of our Christian faith. Where all this walking in the Way of Jesus leads us. We practice our faith for a purpose. The point of it all is to grow into Christian maturity.


I’ve been going to church since the day I was born. Maybe you have too. I can’t think of a Sunday when my family was in town and we didn’t go to church. When I wasn’t encouraged to attend Logos or Vacation Bible School, Youth Group, Sunday School. But have you ever wondered why? This thing called Church—why do we do this? Or maybe that’s the wrong question.

All this being Church—attending worship and spaghetti luncheons—where’s it all taking us? Where is all of this going? What’s the point of this? Is it all repetition for repetition’s sake? We are Church, but why and to what end? Ephesians answers this question: the point of all this is to grow into Christian maturity.

Much like the journey of physical maturity, however treacherous it is, spiritual maturity is about growing up in God. But Paul doesn’t just say that and assume we know what he’s talking about. He goes on to tell us what growing to Christian maturity looks like. Just like physical maturity, the right conditions for growing into a mature faith requires much care, the right kind of nourishment, guidance. So, we’re going to spend these summer months slowly combing through this letter to the church in Ephesus. It’s written to encourage us to grow into the full stature of Christ Jesus, right here in the holy soil into which we have been planted.


I hope to a certain extent that the idea of spiritual maturity in Christ is a new one to you. It’s relatively new to me, also.

I bet that if you asked the average Christian what the goal of the Christian life was, he or she would say something about getting into heaven at life’s end. I think that’s a fine hope. I share in that hope, too. But there’s many a Christian who spend their life holding their breath, waiting for their reward in the afterlife, because it’s never occurred to them that there’s purpose for living this life too, and it has nothing to do with waiting for what comes next.

Hoping for a distant tomorrow seems like a lousy way to live your life today. God has something for us right where we are. On earth as it is in heaven, as Jesus prayed. Eternal life starts right here and right now—in the holy soil of earth. This is where Church starts. When a family of the faithful begins to realize together that living this Christian life is about practicing heaven on earth together—helping each other grow up together into the full stature of our living Lord, Jesus Christ.

Practicing resurrection, holding each other in the holy soil of Easter, all the while prayerfully encouraging one another toward full spiritual maturity—it happens with feet firmly planted on earth. Church is how we all get grafted into God’s salvation story. Church is the community garden of Christian growth. What others have called the Colony of Heaven.


These first two verses of Ephesians are short, but they contain multitudes. They get us thinking about all that matters as we set out to grow into the full stature of Christ with and for each other. Growing into full Christian maturity takes one part grace as well as one part peace.

Grace and peace,

Paul writes.

This mention of grace and peace is a whole lot more than a greeting that Paul uses. With these two words, he’s laying out the landscape of our growth. It is first through grace, and then through peace, that we will mature into the full stature of Christ Jesus.

This summer, as we move from one passage of Ephesians to the next, we will have the very welcome opportunity to think more deeply about these two Divine promises, grace and peace. But for now, it’s important to talk a bit about them here at the beginning. Too often, we think and speak about God’s grace as if it’s an end in itself. We say things like,

There but for the grace of God go I.

Most of the time when we use the word, it’s too often the end, and not the beginning, of our conversations.

Grace too easily degenerates into the notion that being a Christian means simply believing in Jesus Christ and that’s it. It’s too often spoken of as our excuse for never growing in our faith—for staying in place in our faith—for our never being interested growing. Grace too often is mis-used as a means to inactivity. We see it as a good reason to sit back on our heels in our life of faith. There’s no reason to do more or be more because God’s grace holds us. It’s not that this isn’t true, but it’s hardly what scripture has to say about grace. If we listen closely to what Ephesians has to tell us—even what the second verse here has to say—grace starts to look more like the beginning of the salvation story instead of its end.

“Grace and peace,” Paul says. In that order, too. Grace is the beginning of our faith. It’s the first word God speaks to us through Christ in the lifelong conversation that God wants to have with us! Paul wants us to think of grace as the seed that’s sown into the holy soil of our lives—right at the beginning. And it is by grace that this seed grows. Becomes something living and breathing.

Author and teacher Stephen Rankin writes that grace, properly understood, is “the enabling power” through which we can make our way to Christian maturity. Grace is the fuel that powers our spiritual development. It’s the vitamin and the mineral in the holy soil of our faith that starts us off in our story of our growth and into the full stature of Christ.

In a similar way, peace—this second word Paul uses here—is another vital element in our growing into Christ-likeness. Peace is the foundation, the stability of ground that our faith needs to grow safely. Grace and peace. We need both. Neither of them are ends in themselves. As we will learn as we move forward in Ephesians, the end of our faith is full spiritual maturity.


As we move through this letter to the church in Ephesus, I think it will become clear to us that it is also a letter to us, the church in Barboursville, West Virginia. Easter resurrection, Christian maturity, and growth into the full stature of Christ happens in the holy soil beneath the feet of wherever Christ’s people gather—as we practice being church with and for one another. Together, we use the fuel of God’s grace and the power of the Holy Spirit to nurture each other in this holy soil of Easter life.

Our whole purpose for existing is to practice resurrection together. To infuse the living promise of Easter into each other’s blood and bones, minds and hearts. That’s church in essence: The groundwork of God’s salvation. Holy soil. A people on our way to maturity in the world of God-alive, Jesus-alive!

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.


Easter Unfolding

A sermon based on Psalm 116 and Luke 24:13-35 preached on April 30th, 2017

Sermon audio

The ability to see is granted gently.

Throughout scripture, God’s very presence is described as light. The kind of light that overwhelms us, the kind our eyes are not built to withstand or make any sense of.

When God comes to His people, it’s always with a blinding truth that none of us are able to handle. Think of Moses at the burning bush. On fire but not consumed. Think of Sinai, the mountain that only Moses could ascend. He climbed into God’s radiating company. After those mountaintop conversations with God, Moses had to cover his face with a veil, or else the afterglow of God was enough to blind the Israelites.

I imagine every time he stood atop Sinai, Moses shook all over from a reverent fear—an overwhelmed and overwhelming sense of the Holy that not one of us are built to witness. Not many of us could withstand such a sight.

God knows this about us. God was careful with Moses, and God is gentle with us, too. God grants us the ability to see, but He grants it to us gently. Our eyes adjust slowly to new rays of light. That’s why Easter comes not all at once, but over all these days and weeks after Jesus’ resurrection. God unfolds the Truth of Easter slowly. One sign at a time, and only when our eyes and ears, hearts and minds are ready to see it.


No one has ever found Emmaus. Thousands, perhaps millions, of maps have been unfolded, unearthed, and unrolled from their ancient containers, combed over with magnifying glasses in case its name has faded away, but Emmaus has never been discovered. Perhaps it was never a place—or at least no place in particular.

And Cleopas. Who’s Cleopas? We don’t know really. He wasn’t one of the Twelve, but he was a disciple of Jesus all the same. He and his unnamed traveling companion—they were walking away. Away from Jerusalem. And toward who knows where or what. Maybe they didn’t even know. All they knew was that something they had given their lives to had come to an end. It all had unraveled in the course of the last three days. Along the way to Emmaus, they recounted their time with Jesus to each other. All the places He had taken them.

Wouldn’t we like to know all they were saying to each other. They must have recounted His words. His teachings. They must have laughed at themselves for never understanding any of His parables. What was Jesus trying to say, anyway?!

They must have had conversations along the Road about all the healings they witnessed. The way Jesus talked about God as if He knew God’s own heart—or had God’s own mind. What’s not to be astonished by? How could they ever forget?

They must have recounted that last week with Jesus over and over again while they walked away. The conflict in the Temple. That last meal together. The words Jesus had spoken around that table—this is my body broken;  this is my blood poured. Those sleepy moments in the Garden of Gethsemane when their Master went off on His own to pray. The two of them must have poured over every detail of what happened next. The arrest. The chaos of it. It all happened so fast. The next time they saw Jesus, He was hanging on a cross. Then the burial. How many tears were shed along that road as these last few days unfolded again and again in their memories? How do you walk away from all that?

They were going back to their old lives. They were walking away from the last three years of following Jesus. All of it having unraveled into nothing right in front of them.


It’s in the thick of their grief, the fog of all this loss, that Jesus comes along. Appearing to them as a fellow companion along their journey away. Anonymous. Just a stranger keeping them company. He walks with them slowly. Nobody’s in a rush here. There’s nowhere specific to go now—nothing left to do anymore, or so they thought. This is slow time along a lost and dusty road. Jesus had so much to share with them. So much to prove to them, but Jesus is patient with them. God grants us the ability to see, but He grants it to us gently. Our eyes adjust slowly to new rays of light. Jesus knows this about us.

It’s along a road like this, with stories shared like these, that the truth of Easter should strike us not as an event that occurred, but a path on which we stand. A journey we take. A direction we walk. Easter, as well as the resurrection that comes with it, they are not one-time events frozen in place along a timeline. They are a constant unfolding of truth that takes place right in front of us. Easter resurrection is a way for us to encounter Jesus no matter when or where we are.

Emmaus maybe be a lost destination so far as maps are concerned, but we know where it is, because we’ve been there before. Emmaus is all the in-between places in our lives. It’s the ground we stand on when we don’t know exactly where we stand or what we stand for. There are many Emmauses. It’s in the middle of these Emmaus moments that Jesus arrives.

What are you discussing as you walk along?

He says.

Jesus companions with us in these places, but He doesn’t reveal himself—not at first, not in any obvious way—because He knows that our faith cannot yet handle a revelation. We aren’t yet ready for that. Faith cannot be forced upon us. It cannot be coerced. Faith—that is, having eyes to see and ears to hear Jesus—does not come all at once. It must be gradually unfolded in front of us. We are brought to sight slowly. As poet Denise Levertov puts it, every step we take is a sort of arrival. God is patient with His people.


There are moments in our lives when we feel like we’re headed in no specific direction at all. When we lose sight of our purpose and our path. So, we walk away. Away from life as we knew it before. In our grief and hurt, we think that every step forward—away from a life that once was—will distance us from our past.

Jesus knows us better than we know ourselves. That first question He asks the two along the road is Jesus’ way of reminding them of who they are and whose they are. In effect, Jesus comes along and says,

Let me re-tell you your story. It’s God’s story, too.

Jesus won’t let them walk away. God’s story is the biblical story, and we have been a part of it from the very beginning. Jesus won’t let them walk away because first and foremost, this is a story of a God who relentlessly pursues us. Who will not let us go. Who will not let us forget our story. And that’s when Jesus takes over. He tells the two everything that God has been doing. He starts with Moses—all that God has done for His people as God guided them away from slavery in Egypt and into the freedom and abundance of the Promised Land.

Jesus didn’t stop there. He told them about all the prophets who came along after that to guide God’s people in the right direction. Throughout history, those who lose their hope in God—who forget their salvation story—they walk away. But over and over again, God pursued them, retaught them their own story, and set them back on right paths again.

Along the road to Emmaus, as Jesus unfolds God’s story for the two disciples, their hearts are kindled inside of them. Brought to flame. And with each one of Jesus’ words, the two disciples begin piecing back together what they thought was forever broken. Maybe the Jesus story does have a future. Who are we to say that God’s story has an ending? Maybe there’s more.

Easter slowly unfolds in front of these two disciples along the Emmaus road. They start gaining eyes to see some vague notion of a future for themselves. Their hearts are brought to flame as the Holy Spirit speaking into them. But they needed more nudging. We all do. Our eyes are never opened fully. The Easter news of resurrection is too big for us to see all at once. There’s always more that needs revealing. It was only when they stopped and gathered around table, as Jesus broke bread with the two, that something in them was shaken awake.

How many times had they gathered around table with Jesus and shared bread with him? How many times had Jesus hosted a meal with them, inviting the hungry and the lost to be nourished, to recover who they are while sitting around table? This happens over and over again. Countless times. It was around table that their eyes were opened. When bread is shared, all heaven breaks loose.

They recognize Jesus right then. In table fellowship. This should remind us of Communion, of course, but I don’t think that’s the only thing that Luke intends here. After all, it was the two disciples who invited Jesus to stay and eat with them. Jesus was their guest. With hearts burning inside of them, they couldn’t yet let go of this mysterious traveler. They wanted more time with Him. Having been invited to their table, though, Jesus quickly becomes their Heavenly Host, taking bread and breaking it in front of them. It was then, in that moment when Jesus took bread and broke it, that their burning hearts were broken open and they could see!


Friends, Easter is still unfolding right in front of us. There is no end to God’s story. Salvation is still working itself out right in front us, with every step we take along the Way. Emmaus is nowhere in particular. Emmaus is everywhere. Emmaus always happens. Easter is always unfolding in front of us. In all of our journeys, do we have eyes to see Jesus with us?

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.


A sermon based on 1 Peter 1:3-10 and John 20:19-29 preached on April 23rd, 2017

Sermon audio

It’s Easter evening. The disciples are huddled together in a room too small for them. They’re sweating because the air is stagnant. They’re fearful for lack of courage or purpose. Three days ago, their courage and purpose had been crucified on a cross just outside Jerusalem. His name was Jesus.

Yes, there were rumors about. Earlier that morning, the two Marys had run back to the locked room they were huddled in. Out of breath from running, but also from whatever it is that happens to us when fear mixes with joy, they told the disciples that Jesus was alive. Walking, talking, breathing. Having conversations with them. But, for those first disciples, rumors and stories, conjecture and hearsay were good for nothing. How can anyone believe that Jesus is alive without first having seen Him? That’s the deep Easter question we have, isn’t it, friends?

Sometimes faith is easy. There are moments, perhaps many of them, when believing in that which we have not seen with our own two eyes comes effortlessly. But there are also moments when our faith lacks the strength to carry us very far—out of our own locked rooms.

There they were—Jesus’ disciples, who knows how many of them—certainly more than 11—hiding behind locked doors, whispering to each other out of fear of being discovered, certain that if they made too much noise or emerged out of the cubbyhole of a room they were in, they’d end up on a cross just like their Master had.

It’s a wonder that the Jesus movement was birthed at all. For their faith to take on life, those first disciples had to emerge from the grave of that small, locked room. In a sense, they had already buried themselves inside those 4 walls. They had barred the door shut—it was locked from the inside—that door was like a tombstone they had rolled in front of their own grave. All indications would lead us to think that they were calling it quits.


Whenever we read this passage in worship or in Sunday School class, or a bible study, the word doubt inevitably becomes a part of our conversation.

But there’s something much more sinister at play here. Doubt we can handle. We can live with doubt. In fact, it’s hard for us not to. But hope. Hope is something that none of us can survive without. If all we see wherever we look are walls, barriers, locked doors that keep us in, that hold us prisoner—especially when those doors are locked from the inside—then we’ve given up hope. And what else is there if we do not have hope?

Whenever fear takes up more space in our lives than hope, death wins. Life grows smaller. The walls around us get thicker, they move in closer. And there we are, cramped with fear. As good as dead. We all know what it’s like to be stuck in place; it feels like dying—or at least a sort of smaller death.


It is right in the middle of this cramped space, this room filled with fear and death and hopelessness, that we hear a voice we recognize:

Peace be with you!

Jesus says. Heads turn. Mouths fall open. The women were right! Jesus is standing among them. He speaks real words from His real mouth. Looking at the disciples through His real eyes. There He is standing among them in the middle of that cubbyhole of a room. And whether it actually happened or it just felt like it, the walls of that room retreated. The space inside grew bigger, fuller. And suddenly, the disciples could breathe again. In that tiny space, life quickly replaced death.

Peace be with you!

And after saying those words, Jesus breathed on them, inflating their lungs again, reviving their hopelessness, giving new energy—God-energy to their bodies worn down and failing, bringing new birth to their dying spirits. In that moment, everything seemed to expand. Walls. Eyes. Lungs.


Let’s dive a little deeper.

Did you ever notice how many times Jesus’ hands and side are mentioned in this passage? Three. Three times in 11 short verses. This should get our attention.

The first and last time, it’s Jesus who brings up these scars of His. The second time Jesus’ scars are mentioned, it’s Thomas who brushes aside the witness of his fellow disciples. They have told him that they had seen the Lord, and in his stubbornness, the first thing that Thomas brings up is that he needs to see those scars—the nail marks in Jesus’ hands, the lash marks in his side. That’s a curious thing! Have we ever thought about that? What’s so important about Jesus’ marks—these scars He had—that they’re the first thing Thomas says he needs to see, the first thing Jesus shows to His disciples, and the first thing that Jesus shows to Thomas a week later?

There seems to be no question about it: Jesus’ disciples were waiting to see the marks. It’s the most important detail of Jesus’ identity now—that His body now has scars. If we ever had the notion that the body of the resurrected Jesus would be blemish-free—glowing in radiance, white with light, healed by God, then we are assuming too much. In fact, we’d be assuming the opposite of what those first disciples assumed. The resurrected Jesus—the One high and lifted up—the One who is with us now in the power of the Holy Spirit—is perfect, but even in His perfection, He has scars. And these scars aren’t just something left over from His life on earth; these marks He has make Him our Lord and our God.


Our bodies bear witness to the brutalities of this all-too-human life of ours. They’re marked up all over. Our skin tells our stories for us. Our bodies are our best diaries. Written upon them is every bit of our past. Over the landscape of our own bodies we encounter the countless moments of our lives. Our bodies are living signposts marking where we have been and what we have accomplished. They remember where we have stumbled, but they insist on getting back up onto our feet to try again—which in a way is its own tiny resurrection, or if that’s too much, it’s at least resilience, our hope becoming stronger than our fear. Our bodies are living testaments to the God-filled conviction that says: no matter what this world throws at us, we have within us completely resilient spirits. Our marks—physical, spiritual, emotional—do not make us less than human; they are the very things that show forth God’s power to bring us to new birth.


Friends, we belong to a Wounded Healer. Jesus’ scars—the ones in His hands and sides—are not incidental. They are the story He has to tell. They are God’s story.

Jesus isn’t our Lord without those wounds. What He endured for us on the cross shall not be erased. We do not forget his crucifixion, because without Good Friday, there is no Easter. Without the marks, we would not be here. Without the holes in His hands and sides, we would not be whole. The Church was birthed by those marks on Jesus’ resurrected body. And without them, the Church would have died before it ever came to life.


Do you know what this means, friends? It means that our faith is birthed from Jesus’ marks. So, the only way to be Church—to live our lives authentically and in witness to the crucified and resurrected Christ—is to bear our marks. To go out from this place, and into all our places, and show the wounds in our hands and sides. By so doing, we show others that Jesus’ church is far from being a group of people who celebrate their own perfection or holiness. Instead, we are people who are willing to roll up our sleeves and show others the side of ourselves that’s filled with wounds—wounds of body, heart, spirit, and soul. They will know we are Christians by our marks. Our marks make us fully alive! God-alive, Jesus-alive, Easter-alive!

And if we do that—if we are willing to be as vulnerable as Jesus was when He entered into that room appearing to his people, wounds and all, then we will bring light to darkened hearts, hope to fear-filled souls, life to people living their lives half-dead, and maybe, hopefully, lead them to recognize Jesus in much the same way that Thomas did that evening.


Thomas’ eyes were opened when he saw Jesus. And from his mouth came the most profound statement of faith that we have in any of the gospels:

My Lord and my God!

he said.

The Church was given birth that night with those words from Thomas. It is with that declaration of faith along with the breath that Jesus breathed into those disciples—both, bringing them to life—that the Church still has its life.


Friends, we still have limited vision and blinding doubts. We’re often crippled by the same kind of fear that those first disciples had, and that fear causes us to do the same thing it did to them: to keep all held up inside, to keep our faith hidden by these four walls, to hesitate to take the Good News of Jesus-alive out with us—to share it and wear it. To live our days, hours, minutes in witness to our resurrected Lord. It is into our anxiety—that thing that tells us over and over again that our faith is a private thing—that Jesus speaks those same words He did to those first disciples:

Peace be with you.

Jesus says it over and over again. Three times in this passage, and many more times to us. And he’ll continue speaking peace to us until we finally understand what He’s trying to tell us. Christ’s peace is a whole lot more than something that calms our fears. This is Shalom. This is a peace that empowers us and drags us into maturity, wholeness, completeness. Jesus breathes this peace into us. With His breath, Jesus gives us life—He births the Church in the same way God brought creation to life when His Spirit swept over the waters and stirred the cosmos to life.

With this Shalom, we catch our breath and are made into new beings. This is the breath that marks us for second birth. And once we catch Jesus’ breath, once we’re birthed by the Holy Spirit—given our vitality and our mission—we go out from this place and bear witness to our Lord by bearing His marks in all we say, and in all we do.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

Seeing Easter, Practicing Resurrection

A sermon based on Isaiah 52:1-2, 7-12 and Matthew 28:1-10 preached on April 16th, 2017

Sermon audio

It’s stunning how sparse the gospels are about that first Easter morning. All four of the gospels tell the greatest story ever told, and each of the writers was free to use as many words, paragraphs, pages as they needed to do so. But they all tell the Easter story in 10 verses or less. That’s it. Maybe a half a chapter. I want more. I want details. There’s so much about that first Easter morning that’s left unsaid.

It’s not as if the writers of the gospels are impatient when it comes to details. They all devote more than half their pages to the last week of Jesus’ life. Details galore! We know more about those last six days of Jesus life and ministry than all the rest combined. But the Resurrection? What we have is bare bones. The language is sparse—void of any detail. If there was any story in all of scripture to write chapters upon chapters about, this is it! Tell us more about the empty tomb, the angel who moved the stone, the earthquake it all caused.

Why is the story of Easter told so sparsely—with plain, hurried, ambiguous, fuzzy language? Maybe it’s because the gospel writers had no words for what happened that day. Maybe the story of Easter is so insufficiently told because we have no words for resurrection. It isn’t something that any of us bump up against every day.

If our best language is honed from all the ordinary, everyday stuff of our lives, from our repetitive experiences—grocery shopping, folding clothes, making eggs, cleaning up after our children—then we’re going to be speechless here. Resurrection isn’t like any of that. The only one with words that morning was the angel.

Emily Dickinson once wrote,

The truth must dazzle gradually or else every person would go blind.

We’re still being dazzled, gradually, by the resurrection promise of Easter. The light of it is too much to handle all at once.


Have you ever noticed that Easter is not as heavily commercialized as Christmas? Yes, there’s still a huge section in every store that’s full of Easter candy, baskets, eggs, and green cellophane straw, but Easter is not nearly the overly materialistic juggernaut that Christmas is. Why is that?

Presbyterian pastor, Frederick Buechner wonders about that on paper when he asserts that Easter is entirely different than Christmas. Christmas, Jesus is a tiny baby, and we’ve all held a tiny baby in our hands. We can comprehend such a thing as that. We know what cradles look like, so it doesn’t take much for us to imagine what a manger stall might be. There’s so much about Christmas that’s ordinary, every day. As Matthew and Luke tell their nativity stories, we can see it happen in our mind’s eye. It’s as familiar as life itself.


At first the only thing the two Marys had to go on was an empty tomb, and there’s nothing about emptiness for us to hold onto.Easter is elusive. It escapes our grasp.

Matthew says that Mary took hold of Jesus’ feet, but that’s about all anyone in our story could handle in those first moments. And as Easter went onward, everyone who saw the resurrected Jesus had nothing to grab on to. Jesus raised from death to life overwhelms us. That’s why Easter can’t be stapled down by manufacturers of toys or electronics, clothes or jewelry. We have no idea what to make of resurrection. In order to talk about it, we have to borrow language from angels.


Not only is our language and imagination too small to adequately describe the Good News of the empty tomb and Jesus alive among us. So is creation. With the truth of the empty tomb, the earth itself shook. That’s what happens when heaven invades earth. Earth is overwhelmed. The natural world loses its moorings. It has to make way for a thing this big! God’s news of resurrection cannot, will not leave the earth, this cosmos, or any one of us in it, unmoved. Resurrection is a Divine alarm clock that shakes us all awake—that stirs an inattentive world to life.


The guards who stood watch outside Jesus’ tomb were to make sure everything stayed right where it was supposed to—but with one look at the angel descending from the heavens, they became like dead men. An interesting detail, isn’t it?! On a day full of new life, amid a moment when God invades the earth with Easter-vitality, the guards become like dead men.

We should all be stunned by the resurrection of Jesus, but it’s only the unbelieving among us who are stopped dead in their tracks, frozen in place. It’s the women, the ones who believed—as fearful as they were in that moment—who move into action, joy-filled, fear-filled action. Easter is that moment when we who believe are jump-started alive and awake—full of fear, yes, but also more alive than we’ve ever been!

And we’re not the only ones stirred to joyful and fearful action. All of creation is jump-started by the promise of resurrection. This news of the angels is enough to rattle heaven and earth. Even the stones shout out with joy. Absolutely nothing is unmoved by the promise of Jesus-alive! The earthquake is a message God sends: Not a single one of us can meet the resurrected Jesus without being shaken all the way down to our very bones.

To meet Jesus is for the ground to give way beneath our feet, for everything we thought was settled about our lives—not least, the notions we have about the way the world works, and the way that God works in the world—to be thrown out of kilter. Easter is the seismic center of God’s story and ours, and it jolts awake those of us who too easily become comfortable in our faith. That’s what God’s Good News does.


According to Matthew, it’s only the two Mary’s who see Jesus that first Easter morning. None of the other disciples lay eyes on the resurrected Jesus that day. They’re left to catch up with what God is doing by traveling back home to Galilee.

Go to Galilee,

Jesus says to the two Mary’s.

There, the disciples will see Him.

The tomb is empty. We can look inside if we want to. But there’s nothing there. Yes, it was occupied yesterday, but if there’s anything for us to be sure of about Easter, it’s that yesterday—all of our yesterdays—don’t matter anymore. Easter brings an end to all of our yesterdays, and it sets us on our feet toward our tomorrows. Go to Galilee, Jesus says. There the disciples will find their Lord.

Do you know what that means, friends?  It means that we have been anticipated! By the time we have any clue about what God is up to on Easter morning, the tomb has already been emptied. By that time, He had already made His way to Galilee! And from now on, we who call ourselves disciples will spend our lives catching up to Jesus. That’s the message in all of this! Go to Galilee, He says. God always has a head start on us! Seeing Easter and practicing resurrection means going to Galilee.


Galilee was home for those 11 disciples. That first Easter day, the followers of Jesus spent their afternoon walking away from Jerusalem and back home. That’s where Jesus wanted them—in their own neighborhoods, strolling the streets, in the shops along the dusty roads of their own hometown. With and among the locals. That, friends, is how we practice resurrection. By going to Galilee, which is a way of saying, “Take the news of Jesus-alive and resurrected back home with you!” Spend slow time making Easter and the reality of resurrection that comes with it a reality for everyone you see. And do it every day, in your coming and going, right where you find yourself the most. Practice resurrection while you work, and play; while you do the dishes, as you watch out your window at the neighborhood kids playing kickball. See Easter as you visit the sick in hospitals. As you go to work, or buy your groceries, or do your laundry.

Go to Barboursville, West Virginia.

If we were there that first Easter morning, that’s what Jesus would have said to us.

There you will see me.


Go to Galilee. Because that’s where resurrection happens. Go to Galilee! Because that’s where eternal life begins. Right here, right now. As in heaven, so on earth. Go to Galilee! Because Easter is underway, and it unfolds right where we find ourselves. Go to Galilee! Don’t wait for the future before you find abundant life. It’s all right here. In front of us! Go to Galilee—all those tens of thousands of Galilees around us!

So don’t stay here. Go. If there’s anything true about Easter, it’s that Jesus never stays put. Even tombs with big boulders blocking the entrance can’t keep Him penned in. We will not find Jesus where we think we will. He’s ahead of us. He’s made our way for us, and we will have to leave a day’s worth of footprints in order to catch up to Him. So, keep walking. That’s the Easter life. That’s also the life of discipleship.

May we pray to be dazzled by the Truth of Easter, not all at once but gradually—slowly stirred awake and alive by the resurrection promise of this and every day! May we, too, make our way to Galilee, for there we will see Him.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

Finding Emmaus

A sermon based on Psalm 116 and Luke 24:13-25 preached on April 3rd, 2016.

Sermon audio

It’s easy to get lost on your way to Emmaus. It’s a hard place to find because it’s really not a place you can find on a map anymore. People have their hunches where it used to be, but there’s a problem with that, too. Depending on what Christian tradition you come from or listen to, Emmaus could be one of more than five different points on your map, and each one is pretty far from the other. Some ancient copies of Luke’s gospel say that Emmaus is 160 stadia (or 31 kilometers) from Jerusalem and some others say it’s only 60 stadia. And in what precise direction? No one knows that either. It’s somewhere between Jerusalem and Galilee. The rest is up to you to figure out.

But let’s say you were on a trip to the Holy Land and you took a stab at it. The best guidebook on the market, one written by Jerome Murphy O’Connor, whittles the most likely spots down to four. You could start with any one of them—and in no particular order you could drive down each one. On one of them, you’d drive up a hill and you’d see a blue sign that says “Crusader Church” with a really helpful arrow pointing the way, but all you’d find ahead of you is a small cinderblock school house. Nobody would be there. It’s abandoned.

So at that point, you might decide to turn around thinking you’ve missed something, and before you recognized where you even started from, you’d find yourself at a dead end. And at that point, you’d figure out that all of the road signs were wrong. None of them are of any help at all. And if you weren’t frustrated out of your mind already, you’d try to find the next Emmaus. There’s three more to go. “Which Emmaus is real? Is there even an Emmaus at all?” Those are some of the questions you might start to wonder.

We had hoped.

Those three words should stand out to us in this passage. Along with “It is finished,” and “Jesus wept,” they’re some of the saddest words in all of scripture.

Two of Jesus’ disciples, Cleopas and an unnamed one, are walking away from Jerusalem. It’s a few days after the important people hung their Master from a tree. They may have seen Jesus take his last breath. They may have seen His head fall to His chest. They may have stuck around to see Joseph of Arimathea take Jesus’ body down from the cross, put Him in a tomb, sealing its entrance with a gigantic stone. And now they’re walking away from it all. It’s over. For 3 years, they followed this man. They loved Him. They invested themselves in Him. Dropped their jobs, left their families, gave it all up. And what’s left to show for it?

We had hoped,

they said.

All that’s left are the shards of things. The broken promises. The jagged edges of memory. Their crushed expectations. They had come all this way with Him—for Him—and the signs were all wrong! So, dejected, they made their way home along the Emmaus Road.


It’s one thing to have faith in a person—someone who you can see, someone with eyes that look at you, and a mouth that speaks to you, and hands that reach out to touch yours. It’s another thing entirely to have faith in a resurrected Savior. That first kind of faith can prove itself well in lecture-rooms and science labs. It can be measured by observers and witnessed by companions. But faith in a resurrected Savior, that’s a different thing. That kind of faith takes a new sort of vision. A whole different sort of witnessing. Faith in a person who walks with you down all your dusty roads, yet doesn’t leave the footprints to prove it. That’s another matter entirely. With eyes of faith, we see Jesus walking beside us, or at least we hope that’s what He does, but sometimes we’re unsure about that. And most times, we’d never dare share such a thing aloud, lest everyone else think we’re out of our minds. But Jesus is our travel companion. Silent most of the time, but still somehow speaking. That’s what Cleopas and his fellow travel companion found out as they walked down the Emmaus Road. At some point along their journey, a third person walks up to them. They strike up a conversation. Jesus says nothing about Himself, he just asks questions and listens.

I wonder what prevented them from noticing that it was Jesus. Did Jesus have a hood over his face, or were all three of these men looking down at the ground as they walked along—too eager to get to their destination to notice anything along the way? It wasn’t until they stopped for the evening, set up camp, and sat down for a meal together that Cleopas and this other unnamed disciple notice that this whole time, it was Jesus who walked this long road with them. Until that moment, their eyes were kept from seeing. Think the Lord’s Supper. Think the feeding of the 5,000. How many times before has it taken food broken, blessed, and shared for people to recognize Jesus? We don’t have fingers enough to count!

Then at all once, their eyes were opened. Passive tense: they didn’t open their own eyes, something outside of them opened up something new in them and suddenly they saw! And just as quickly as they saw Jesus He vanished from their sight—who knows how or what that looked like—but all at once, Jesus disappeared.


Imagine you’re speaking with a woman who has just given birth. Having never given birth before, you ask her,

What was it like?

What would she say? She might share with you how wonderful and joyful it was. Then in the next breath she might tell you about the pain, describing it as far beyond anything she’s ever felt before. She would probably tell you she felt frightened out of her mind. Then you might say to yourself,

How could anything be frightening and joyful at the same time. That makes no sense.

She might also tell you that she feels exhausted but at the same time also full of love. You’ve never experienced those two emotions together before, so you have a hard time imagining anything close to it, but you know she’s telling you the truth because she seems sincere, and who could make up anything like that anyway? Who would ever put those two emotions together that way? Other mothers can come along and hear that and say,

I know just what you mean!

So, how do you describe the greatest event in history: the resurrection of Jesus to someone who doesn’t know? At least there are plenty of mothers out there who understand what childbirth is like. But what if you’re a witness to this one point in history, along the road? The Risen Jesus walks with you, asks you questions about Himself, shares a meal with you, and then vanishes? Who’s ever going to believe a thing like that? And what words are there to convey that experience and all of its emotions to others who weren’t there to experience it for themselves? How would you share it with anyone? What words are big enough for that? And why should you expect anyone to believe you?

We all have personal experiences where we meet Jesus. We could open up the floor and have all of us share our encounters with the Risen Lord, and if 45 spoke, we’d have 45 different stories—not a one like the other, which adds to each story’s authenticity.

Luke is the only gospel to share this story of Cleopas and this other unnamed disciple encountering the Risen Christ as they walk along the Road to Emmaus. If all the other gospel writers wrote about a Jesus-sighting along this same road, in the exact same way, with identical words, that would make me think something was rigged. That would mean that the four gospel writers were swapping notes with one another, making sure that their stories matched up. And that would make me more skeptical. But that’s not what we have. What we have are four unique stories of encounters with the risen Jesus, told so differently that they must have been much more concerned about sharing what they experienced and saw and felt for themselves, because that’s what people do when they’re sharing their hearts with others—they get to the edge of language, not fully able to convey with words what they witnessed, so what we get is their clumsy attempt to give words to an experience that is really beyond words. That’s when we start listening with our ears perked up because we know that we’re hearing a lone witness doing their best to tell their Jesus story,—trying to describe what happened along the road to Emmaus with words big enough for us to find our way there, too.


From my own vantage point, I see that there are much more than four ways to Emmaus. We are all Cleopas’ unnamed companion, and we walk down 10,000 wandering and winding, twisted and treacherous roads. Emmaus didn’t happen just once; and it doesn’t exist in one spot on a map. Emmaus happens whenever hope and mystery, joy and disappointment, doubt and faith commingle. Emmaus exists everywhere, and at every turn! Emmaus happens when a way is made out of no way; when God takes our closed hearts and minds and pries them open to show us glimpses of Jesus—even if just momentary ones before He vanishes from our sight.


The visionary poet, Walt Whitman concluded in his sprawling poem Song of the Open Road with these words:

Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


If you’re traveling across the Holy Land, you may never find Emmaus. It’s one of those things where you might drive right passed it but never realize it. But it’s not so important to find it anyway. Emmaus isn’t somewhere. It’s everywhere. And it doesn’t so much matter where you walk as much as it matters who walks with you.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.


A sermon based on Isaiah 65:17-25 and Luke 24:1-12 for Easter Sunday, March 27th, 2016

Sermon audio

We have four sketches of Easter, one from each gospel, each with their own point of view, shades and shadows, texture and depth.

This Easter morning, we look at the empty tomb from Luke’s vantage point. Luke gives us traces of Good News. There are angels—two of them—who appear to the four women just as they walk into the empty tomb. Imagine that. It’s dawn. Only traces of sunlight are spilling over the hillsides. You’ve come to anoint a dead body—to faithfully do your duty for the dead among you. But what you find when you get to the tomb is that there are no traces of the deceased among you. You expected a tomb full of death and stench, but as you walk into it—with its huge gravestone somehow rolled away, all you see is emptiness and light! There you see Jesus’ burial cloth strewn over the place where you saw him just a day ago, but like a bed sheet, it’s tossed and twisted in every direction. You can see where His body once was in the curves of the sheets, but that’s all, that’s the only trace of Him left—some old laundry.

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

the angel speaks.

These must have been confounding words. We should not expect the women—or anyone else for that matter—to know what these words mean. He was here just yesterday and now he’s not. What’s this “living among the dead” talk?

The four women run back and tell the 11 apostles what they saw—or rather what they didn’t see—what they heard but did not yet understand. And the apostles dismiss them as foolish right away. These women are all speaking nonsense—some idle tale spun out of perhaps their weariness or grief.

See, Easter dawns on us like that. Like early morning light, it comes upon us slowly. First, we may not even believe it. It takes a while for us to see because most of us don’t have eyes for Easter.


I wonder what that first Easter morning felt like. Peter rushes to the tomb after the women’s news. He sees that, except for the linen cloth, it’s empty just as the women said. That was the morning when their world turned upside down. When nothing at all made sense. Little did they know at the time, but it was not only their own personal worlds that flipped upside down. That first Easter morning was when God tossed the entire world upside down, or perhaps right-side up. And a world tossed upside down or right-side up never works the same way again.

When I put myself in the shoes of these four women, the first witnesses to the dawn of Easter truth, or in Peter’s, I think of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The darkness of that first Easter morning gives way to a brighter sun, but all of what happens from that first moment on only gets curioser and curiouser. At one point in Louis Carrol’s novel, Alice says,

I knew who I was this morning, but I must have been changed several times since then!

That sounds a whole lot like resurrection to me.

When we hear the word resurrection, we think of what’s gonna happen to us the day we die, or on the day when the All-In-All finally becomes All-In-All. But resurrection is much more than that. It’s both bigger and smaller than that. Resurrection didn’t just happen 2,000 years ago, and it won’t just happen at some point in our future; it always happens. Easter resurrection is a matter of living into, waking up to the wonder of God’s creation, celebrating God’s salvation in our Risen and Living Lord, and gathering in community with the redeemed, the forgiven, and the beloved.

There’s traces of resurrection everywhere! Like the disciples on that first Easter Sunday, it takes a while for us to see because most of us don’t have eyes for it. There are traces of our old self that tell us that the Good News of Easter can’t really be true. So, little by little, as the light of day cracks open the darkness of our old selves, traces of our new selves begin taking shape as the truth of Easter dawns on us, as we grow new eyes to see the brand new creation born among us and sprung to life! As the angels said,

Why do you look for alive things among dead things! Can’t you see what is happening right in front of you? It’s the third day. There are only traces left of him here. He is risen!

Once you see the stone rolled away, once you walk into an empty tomb, the stench of death no longer inside of it, and only a cloth remaining where He once laid, there’s no going back to the world and its old ways. All the former things are no more. Now, a new way of being, seeing, living is available to you!


Resurrection takes time, though. It doesn’t happen in just one moment. Notice that the resurrected Jesus makes no appearance in Luke’s story of the empty tomb. Later on in his gospel, as we move through the seven Sundays of Easter, Jesus will appear to his disciples in several ways and in several different places. But for now, on this first Easter morning, an empty tomb and the words of two angels are all there is. Like seeds planted in soil that sprout only in their season, resurrection happens when we are ready for it—when the time is ripe. When all the pieces start coming together and a new vision begins to form in front of us. When we start tracing lines between all the scattered dots we’ve encountered. That’s the long journey of Easter. It’s the space between seeing the nothingness of an empty tomb and that first moment when we come face-to-face with the risen Jesus. And in the in-between time, there are only traces, nudges, hints of resurrection. We collect them until one day they all fit together in our minds and hearts and we can suddenly make sense of them.

Easter takes time. Resurrection takes time. Both of them always happen—when we’re ready to see them. When God’s ready to show them to us. But they take time.

As she’s trying to make sense of what’s happening to her in that funny place called Wonderland where everything seems upside down, Alice says,

I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night. Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!

Easter resurrection changes us into new people. Ones we have a hard time recognizing.


Indeed, resurrection is a puzzle! And that may be the most amazing thing of all. God raised Jesus from the dead, but He left it up to a bunch of disciples to figure it all out. God placed the world-changing message of His Son coming back from the dead in the hands of its first witnesses! God knew that the first and overwhelming emotions Easter’s first witnesses would feel would be hardness of heart, skepticism, and disbelief. But God placed the story into their hands anyway. It’s a story that would change the world, but it would take a while for those first witnesses to share even a word of it with anyone, but God knows it takes time for the truth of resurrection to dawn on us—to come to life, and then take on a life of its own.

God trusts us, too. God trusts us to tell the greatest story ever told to those we meet along the way. Sometimes it takes a while for our eyes to adjust to new rays of light. Sometimes it takes time for us to find the words to use, or how to share our stories with others. But the wondrous thing is that God trusts us to share it.


The apostles thought the story the women told them was Nonsense. A tale spun from their imaginations, and only that.

Resurrection happens within us, around us, among us, inside of us when we share our stories no matter how others may react. Resurrection happens when we take the nonsensical story of Easter, give it a heartbeat by sharing it. Making it come alive! This is how we are witnesses to the resurrection


Peter ran to the tomb after dismissing the testimony of the female disciples. He bent over to look inside, seeing only traces of things—the linen cloth where Jesus once laid. He returned home, wondering what had happened. Some other translations of this text say that Peter was amazed.

This Easter, be amazed, but don’t stop there. Speak of the amazing. Give it words if you can. Words to share the unreal miracle of Easter in real ways. Become curiouser and curioiser about the Good News of our Risen Lord! Bear witness to it, and live into it, because there’s no going back to the world and its old ways. That’s how deep this rabbit hole goes! All the former things are no more. Look for traces of the risen Lord among you, in the faces of others, in a world made new with Spring promises. Even Alice said it herself:

It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.

Resurrection means leaving our dirty laundry behind us and walking out of the tombs that once enclosed us. May you live into the new ways of Easter resurrection, and may not a trace of the old way hold you back.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

If Your Knees Aren’t Green

A sermon based on Gen 2:4b-9, 15 and John 20:1-18 preached on Easter Day, April 5th, 2015.

 Who are you looking for?

That’s one of the questions posed to us at Easter just as it is posed to Mary, who seems beside herself in those first Easter moments—standing next to someone, she’s not yet sure who. And we have this strange insight into the mind of Mary. By all appearances it seemed to her that she was talking to the gardener.

When Mary sees the empty tomb, her first impression differs from ours. We know the Easter story. Mary doesn’t. Resurrection, Easter-style, is not even a concept in her mind. It’s not a possibility. Nobody dead comes alive again. It’s not a category, resurrection. It’s not in Mary’s spiritual vocabulary. It’s not in anyone’s spiritual vocabulary in the 1st century. So, we can forgive Mary for thinking that an empty tomb means something much more sinister has occurred. For most of this story, Mary and the others (accept for one unnamed disciple) see the empty tomb and think they’re staring at a crime scene.

The way John writes Easter is different. For most of his story, the main characters (the ones we know the names of, at least!) have frantic minds filled with images of grave robbers at-large.

Who are you looking for?

the gardener asks.

See Mary’s mind has already gone into frantic mode by the time he asks that question, the rest of the disciples’ minds are in freak out mode, too. So it doesn’t seem like Mary is even aware of the gardener’s question. It just doesn’t register in her head. And, Mary’s reply to the gardener’s question, have you ever noticed, has a tinge of blame in it:

Sir, if you have carried him away,

she says,

tell me where you have put him and I will get him.

Mary doesn’t answer the gardener’s question as much as she sticks him with the crime:

It’s the horticulturist, in the garden, with the spade! He did it!

It’s as if Mary says to the gardener:

Why would you do something as horrible as moving a dead body that had been so carefully buried?

Do you get a sense…that’s the question that Mary really wanted to ask.

Mary has a whole conversation with this gardener guy. A nice, healthy back and forth, and nothing. And no “Aha moment” until…when? Until Jesus the gardener says her name…


Then, bam. The light flows in, all the sudden, and Mary sees that this gardener she’s been talking to and point fingers at is Jesus. This is Mary’s moment of recognition. This is the moment that John emphasizes in his version of the Easter story. The moment when all of the disciples encounter the empty tomb? Not buying it. The moment when they see the nicely-folded linen clothes? Eh. That doesn’t cut it. Even when Mary looks at Jesus she doesn’t have her Easter moment.

Mary’s Easter moment comes when Jesus says her name. That’s the moment of recognition. That’s Mary’s Easter moment. One of my favorite ways to think about God is borrowed from a theologian named Paul Tillich. He suggests that God is not so much like a being hovering somewhere in the skies as much as God is like the Ground of Being—the foundation underneath our feet. And (unless you’re from California) quiet, solid, and reliable. God is the Ground of Being because God has a quality of Always-Thereness—God is the steady presence beneath our anxious and wandering feet.

Mary, why “gardener”? Why would Mary assume “gardener”? There did she get that from? This is one of the most well-known of sacred stories, so doesn’t this whole “gardener” bit seem strange? But, what if Mary thought Jesus was the gardener because he was gardening? That’s the simplest explanation, wouldn’t you say?

When Mary walks up from the empty tomb with her eyes full of tears, wondering what crime had just been committed, what she sees is a person gardening. So Mary makes what seems to be a pretty safe assumption:

You must be the gardener here? And, well, since you’re the gardener here, I suppose you’ve been around for a couple hours doing whatever gardeners do here—you must know something about the empty tomb I just saw.

What if Mary wasn’t mistaken? What if Mary was right? What if the risen Christ came upon Mary with a few gardening tools in his hand?

See, that’s Mary’s Easter moment. She encountered the risen and living and eternal Christ, and he had a spade in his hand, dirty knees, and can we imagine a few smudges of dirt of his face?

Jesus the Master Gardener.

Mary sees the Christ tilling the soil of the garden. Cultivating the ground. This Ground of Being in Christ-like form, turning the hard clay of death—the death of Good Friday and replacing it with the rich potting soil of Easter resurrection.

The famous theologian, Calvin was undressing right before a bath one summer evening after a long day outside with his pet tiger Hobbes. And Calvin says to Hobbes,

Wow, look at the grass stains on my skin! I say, if your knees aren’t green by the end of the day, you ought to seriously reexamine your life.

That line has become a mantra for gardeners everywhere. It’s also the invitation of Easter. To play in the dirt. The risen Christ’s other Great Commandment is

Take up your shovels and follow me. Dig deep. Uproot your fears. Excavate your all that useless clay beneath your feet and plant something new.

The appearance of Jesus, the Master Gardner, should take us back to the words of our Genesis text for the day, when God planted the very first garden on earth: the one in Eden.

God had green knees that day. It was on that day that God stimulated the roots of countless wild plants, and put them down in the soil. And it was in that same manner that the Ground of Being

formed the human from the topsoil of the fertile land and blew life’s breath into our nostrils.

And then the text says,

humans came to life.

Easter is when we celebrate that moment of resurrection—when God breathes new life in us through the new and resurrected life of His Son and our Savior, Jesus the Christ. Easter is that moment when we, like Mary, see that the living Jesus stands right in front of us—that we’ve been talking to Him all along. We just needed to hear our names called so that we could see Him with a new set of eyes. But, that’s also the challenge of Easter.

Easter isn’t for spectators. It’s for participants. Easter asks to do just what Calvin said: to thoroughly reexamine our lives. Easter wants us to have green knees—to dig deep, to till the soil of our hearts and lives, to uproot fear and judgment, and plant seeds of hope and compassion and love in their place. The resurrected Christ, the Master Gardener in our midst on this and every Easter day, asks us to till the soil of our hearts and lives so that new things can grow there. The Risen Jesus wants us to dig down deeper into our communities and in ourselves, to plant into the soil all around us the seeds of resurrection so we, right along with Mary on that very first Easter, can recognize the living Jesus in the people who stand right in front of us.

Friends, that’s the invitation of Easter! But, it’s not a once-a-year invite. It’s a 365 invite, because we are 365 Easter people, asked to get our knees dirty and our lives reexamined everyday by the Master Gardener who stands right in front of us and calls us by name.

That morning Mary set out while it was still dark to see a dead body, sealed up in a tomb with a rock heavier than she could manage to roll back on her own. But what she saw instead was an empty tomb, a situation gone horribly wrong she thought, and then a man standing right there alongside her, working the ground as if something new was about to come alive again. Jesus, the Master Gardener, had to dig a bit to reveal to Mary who he was.

Who are you looking for this resurrection day?

Jesus, the One with green knees, the living One whom we encounter on this Easter morning, and every Easter morning, 365—tilling our hearts and our lives over and over again, and calling each and every one of us by name until we recognize him standing right in front of us.

The great task of this Easter Sunday is to take up our shovels and follow the Master Gardener. The great invitation on this Resurrection Sunday is to get our knees green, tending to the soil of our lives, reexamining them—and then uprooting all that is dead, or fear-filled—excavating all that hard clay, and letting Jesus the Gardener replace it with the rich topsoil of resurrection.

Take up your shovels and follow Jesus! That’s the 365-Easter message for the 365-Easter people.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.