I’ve sometimes said something that even I think is strange.  It has to do with being sick.  It’s happened when I’ve heard people talk about weight loss as a result of an illness.  Understand, I’m not referring to serious, life-threatening weight loss; I’m not talking about wasting away.  It’s just a question of taking off some pounds.  I’ve remarked (jokingly) a good way to trim the fat is to get sick.  Although, I add, it’s not the preferred method!

Another quirky comment deals with an almost abnormal (okay, let’s call it abnormal) satisfaction.  It’s possible in a weird way to enjoy being sick, or at least, not to hate it too much.  Again, I’m not talking about anything severe or really painful.  It’s simply that when one is under the weather, it’s possible to appreciate the days off.  And depending on how big a baby one is, it’s nice if you have someone to wait on you.  (Not that I would know anything about that!)

Of course, there can be many problems with that, aside from being unnecessarily needy on said person!  One big problem would be getting used to being sick or injured.  A problem would be allowing it to define us.  You know, being the survivor of brain cancer who takes anti-seizure medication, whose condition is exacerbated by lack of sleep.  (Again, not that I would know anything about that!)

[Speaking of brain cancer survivors, there’s a woman named Joan Reilly who has her own quirky story.  She had the same kind of cancer as mine, oligodendroglioma.  Part of her story is told in her dry-wit cartoon, “What My Brain Tumor Taught Me about Anxiety.”[1]]

Considering the questionable appreciation of—or reliance on—sickness, there’s a fellow some might say is the embodiment of it.  But first, we need to set the stage.

The gospel reading in John 5 begins by saying, “After this.”  We’re starting right after Jesus has healed the son of a royal official, a son who was at death’s door.  Now we see Jesus entering Jerusalem, during “a festival of the Jews” (v. 1).  It’s not clear which festival is intended.

I want to digress for a moment on something that has led to oppression and death: which is the use of the word “Jews” in the gospel of John.  Without going into great detail, the context of John’s gospel is very important.  “Jews” can refer to the Jewish officials, and/or possibly to the Jewish people who were at that time persecuting the church.

A grievous misunderstanding of the word’s use has had a horrific effect down through the centuries.  Christians have inflicted all manner of cruelty against Jews.  It’s even led to the hateful nickname, “Christ killers.”  Friends, that is not the way to read the gospel according to St. John!

Moving on, we come to a pool known for its healing qualities called Beth-zatha, or Bethesda.  (Of course, we know Bethesda, Maryland as the home of the Walter Reed Medical Center and the National Institutes of Health.)  This pool attracts people with all manner of illnesses.  One wonders if there aren’t those with an entrepreneurial spirit traveling though the villages selling containers filled with the therapeutic elixir of Bethesda!

What is the source of the water’s power?  Legend has it that an angel now and then goes and stirs up the water, and the first one in gets healed.  Anyway, that’s what part of verse 3 and all of verse 4 say.  But there’s almost universal consensus those words were added on later.

Okay, the stage is set.  The first actor, Jesus, is already present.  The other actor, a poor soul who we’re told has been sick for thirty-eight years, is found lying on the ground among some other unfortunate ones.  Thirty-eight years is a massive chunk of someone’s life.  When you figure in life expectancy in those days, it’s likely this fellow has known nothing but sickness.

When Jesus sees the man, he asks him a question that, on the face of it, seems to have an obvious answer.  It’s almost like asking, “Is the sky blue?”  He makes the inquiry, “Do you want to be made well?”  Do you no longer want to be sick?  Are you tired of lying around here?

We might expect the sick man to respond, “Yes, yes, yes!”  What does he say?  He begins, “I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up.”  And because of that, “while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me” (v. 7).  It’s not the straight answer we might imagine.  And as you might also imagine, there have been quite a few takes on his reply.

A common viewpoint goes back to what I said earlier about a reliance (and even appreciation, if possible?) on being sick.

Raymond Brown is somewhat less than charitable in his assessment.  He notes about the man, “His crotchety grumbling about the ‘whippersnappers’ who outrace him to the water betrays a chronic inability to seize opportunity, a trait reflected again in his oblique response to Jesus’ offer of a cure.”[2]  He says our poor fellow demonstrates a quality of “real dullness.”

Without hurling insults at the sick man, can we get a sense of him saying something like, “Can I think about it and get back to you?  I’m not sure I’m ready to make that commitment yet.”

I think I can understand his reluctance.  He’s lived with this illness for a very long time.  As I suggested earlier, is it possible he’s let it define him?

In this congregation, we are blessed to have several people who, in one way or another, have experience in the medical field.  Maybe I’m the only one who’s ever heard this, but I have heard comments (not very positive ones!) about people being referred to as “the appendectomy in room 203,” or “the head trauma in 315.”  Again, I don’t know if anyone here has encountered that.  I’m sure it’s a necessary shorthand, so to speak.  It would be a bit of a mouthful to say, “James Moore, the fellow in 203 who had an appendectomy.”  But maybe we can see just a tiny example of being identified with one’s ailment.

So maybe our friend at Bethesda has in some way become comfortable with his condition.  Now he has the opportunity to leave his comfort zone.

I wonder, how often has Jesus asked me to leave my comfort zone?  How many times have I said, “Can I think about it and get back to you?  I’m not sure I’m ready to make that commitment yet.”  How many times have all of us decided against leaving our comfort zone?  I suppose there’s a good reason for it to be called our “comfort zone”!

Leaving our comfort zone forces us to move forward and be responsible in a way like never before.

In his article, “Courage to be Whole,” Kyle Childress includes the quote, “if it is hell to be guilty, it’s certainly scarier to be responsible—response-able—able to respond to God’s call, able to respond to the word and love of Jesus.”[3]  I’ve found it’s easy to talk about something, but not as easy to actually do it.

He adds, “We know that to get up and follow Jesus will involve us in people’s lives in ways we’re not sure we want, because to be whole means to be re-membered, re-connected with God and with God’s people and God’s creation.  No more isolation.  No more living my own private life where no one bothers me.  To be whole means to get off of the couch and get involved.”

So far, we’ve looked at the fellow as reluctant to receive healing.  Still, as I said, there’s more than one way to consider his answer to Jesus.  Remember, he says, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool.”  I have no one.  Is that his plaintive cry?

Brian Stoffregen speaks of an alternate idea of healing.  It has to do with cultural and social connection.  “The man in our text has no one to put him in the water when it is stirring.  He has no friends.  He has no family.  There is no one to help him.”[4]  It looks like he’s been shunted aside, basically forgotten.  For him, healing would not only be physical, but it would help restore those social connections without which one might exist, but not really live.

It’s somewhat analogous to people who live on the street.  When we lived in Philadelphia, it was a not uncommon event to encounter them.  Even here in Auburn, there are more homeless people than we might imagine.

After all that, what does Jesus do?  He says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk” (v. 8).  And that’s what the sick man does.  Jesus simply tells the man what to do.

It’s been about twenty years since the movie, The Matrix, came out.  For those who’ve never seen the movie, very quickly it’s about a computer hacker named Neo (played by Keanu Reeves) who learns about the nature of his reality, which is that he’s living in an illusion generated by sentient and malicious computer programs.  A group of people led by Morpheus (played by Laurence Fishburne) help him break free of the illusion and see the world as it really is.

They teach him to live in the real world, part of which involves training in various fighting techniques.  They do this in a simulation.  Neo is not making any progress.  An exasperated Morpheus scolds him, “What are you waiting for?  You’re faster than this.  Don’t think you are, know you are.  Come on.  Stop trying to hit me and hit me.”

I mention this because sometimes we get trapped in our thinking.  (Actually, it’s much more than “sometimes.”)  I wonder if something like that is going on with Jesus and the sick man.  What are you waiting for?  Jesus wants to cut through the man’s explanations—and even his misfortunes—and just tell him, and show him, what to do.  Jesus lets him know he needs more than yes.  Just do it.  (And again, am I saying something without actually doing it?)

At the end of verse 9, a new paragraph begins with the words, “Now that day was a sabbath.”  We’re moving on to the story at large, which is Jesus’ violation of the sabbath rules.  That is, the rules the religious leaders follow and teach the people.  The point isn’t his healing of the man but his command to take his mat and carry it.  Carrying his mat on the sabbath constitutes working on the sabbath.  It is forbidden!

Verse 10 says, “the Jews said to the man who had been cured, ‘It is the sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your mat.’”  (Remember what I said earlier about the use of the word “Jews.”)

With their use of the understanding of sabbath they would hinder the man.  They would hinder him from experiencing God, from experiencing the power of the Holy Spirit.  Elsewhere, Jesus says, “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath” (Mk 2:27).  The sabbath was made for us; we were not made for the sabbath.

I wonder: what rules, what guidelines do we have—what do we impose—that hinders others (and ourselves) from fully experiencing God?  What walls do we build in the attempt to prevent the saving and empowering grace of Jesus Christ from reaching certain others?  How often do we mimic the prophet Jonah’s attitude toward the people of Nineveh, saying, “I don’t want them forgiven!”

We are nearing the end of the Easter season.  Is there anything in us that has died and needs resurrection?  Or at least, is there anything in us that needs healing?  I think I’m safe in saying yes to both of those.  But we are not alone.  We have a Lord who directs us—who carries us, if need be—into those stirring, healing waters.

And guess what?  That healing doesn’t come to us all by our lonesome.  It comes in the connection that is community.  It comes in the connection that is this congregation.  It comes in the connection that sends us beyond these walls.  It comes in the connection that bids us to “go forth in peace,” to be the peace and to share the peace.  It bids us “to love and serve the Lord,” to love our neighbor more than any rules that would hinder.  We serve the Lord, who reminds us there’s plenty of water in the healing, life-giving pool.

[1] medium.com/spiralbound/what-my-brain-tumor-taught-me-about-anxiety-513113356d68

[2] Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel According to John, I-XII (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, 1966), 209.

[3] www.ekklesiaproject.org/blog/2010/05/courage-to-be-whole

[4] www.crossmarks.com/brian/john5x1.htm

This scripture passage appears in the lectionary, but it’s in Year C during the Christmas season.  As you notice, once again, I have cause to point out the exclusion of verses we all can see.  The lectionary routinely omits the “troublesome” verses.  That’s what happens in Colossians 3.

The rest of the chapter has verses as troublesome as anything in the New Testament.  “Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord” (v. 18).  Oh, boy!  And then there’s the part that starts off, “Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything” (v. 22).

You know, maybe one reason the lectionary editors left that out is to avoid the awkward moment after reading it.  That is, when we say, “This is the word of the Lord.  Thanks be to God!”

I won’t go into great detail about this passage.  It’s been a headache for centuries.  It has been rightly criticized as being a tool supportive of the patriarchal mindset.  Of course, it can also be seen as a remnant of very specific cultural references­­­­—not at all applicable to us today.  Still, there are those who like all of the “submission of women” stuff.  And our nation’s history has been dreadfully warped by the appalling misuse of the scriptures regarding slaves.

So let’s move on.  We can think of the preceding comments as a preface, or introduction, to the sermon.

It doesn’t take very much for me to get hot.  On a warm summer day, or even during a meeting in a warm room, I might start sweating in no time.  Sometimes it happens when I’m standing in the pulpit!  I am a self-admitted wimp when it comes to hot weather.  That’s why I try to avoid going south during the summer.  That’s one reason why I love winter.

In any event, when it comes to clothing, in particular when it comes to T-shirts, I prefer the all-cotton heavy ones.  It might seem counter-intuitive, but I consider them to be cooler than the thin ones.  Unfortunately, they are difficult to find.  I have had three of them for many years, and they are getting a bit ragged.

In our scripture reading, St. Paul talks about some clothing he likes.  It is abundant, though sometimes it doesn’t fit very well.  We usually have to grow into it.  It can be itchy and scratchy.  We have to be encouraged to put it on.  These clothes are made of material like none other: “compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience” (v. 12).

Paul talks about clothing just a few verses earlier.  He says to get rid of “anger, wrath, malice, slander, and abusive language,” since we have “clothed [ourselves] with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator” (vv. 8, 10).  That’s a pretty good fashion design, better than anything modeled on a Paris catwalk!

There’s a fine thread count which makes abundant use of forgiveness.  We’re told, “Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony” (v. 14).

That bit about “perfect harmony” brought to mind the song Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney did in the 80s, “Ebony and Ivory.”  You know how it goes.  “Ebony and ivory live together in perfect harmony / Side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don’t we?”

That’s not a gratuitous, unnecessary mention of music.  Beginning with the end of verse 15, “And be thankful,” we follow a path that leads to singing.  “With gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God” (v. 16).

There’s a saying, “One who sings, prays twice.”  That’s been attributed to St. Augustine.  I love singing, even if as I’ve said many times, no one wants to hear it.  But God really is the audience, as the apostle says—and God is a forgiving audience!

On a related topic when it comes to music, here’s something about King David.  Well known lover of music and poetry he is, the book of 1 Chronicles includes something about his reign as king.

In chapter 25, we see David setting apart some musicians “who should prophesy with lyres, harps, and cymbals” (v. 1).  They are to speak the message of the Lord with their music.  I really like that.  We know that songs are able to convey the word of God, but so can music.

Staying with the apostles’ theme, we can clothe ourselves; we can envelop ourselves in the sound of music; we can dress ourselves in joy.

Paul tells the Colossians to “let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts.”  He adds, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (vv. 15-16).  We can indeed look good on the outside—with the clothing we show the world, covering up the clothing of virtues we saw earlier.

So what does it mean for the peace of Christ to rule in our hearts?  It’s not just to live there, but to rule.  The peace of Christ rules!  What does rule our hearts?  To what do we give our hearts?

The apostle says the word of Christ is to dwell in us richly.  Again, not simply to dwell, to take up residence, but to really take over the place.  The word of Christ is to adorn our very being.  It is to shine like precious gemstones.

I’m forced to ask myself, “How richly does that word dwell in me?”  Do I sometimes let it walk around in raggedy, sweaty clothing?

The word of Christ.  The word of the Messiah.  “Word” in Greek is λογος (logos).  Usually it just means an ordinary word.  Applied to God, it can also carry a sense of something elemental or eternal.  The “word of Christ” is like that.

In chapter 1, the word logos appears twice.  In verse 5, it is “the word of the truth” where it refers to the gospel.  In verses 25 and 26, it’s “the word of God,” which is, as the scripture reads, “the mystery that has been hidden throughout the ages and generations.”  We’re told by Marcus Barth and Helmut Blanke that the word of Christ, the word of the Messiah “is the word which proclaims the Messiah (the revealed secret) and by which the Messiah himself is received as Lord.”[1]  St. Paul says the word of Christ is the secret revealed within us.

If we look ahead to chapter 4, he asks the Colossians to pray for he and his friends so “that God will open to us a door for the word, that we may declare the mystery of Christ” (v. 3).  The apostle longs to “reveal it clearly” (v. 4).  We also are called to reveal the mystery, to make it manifest in our lives.

With what do we clothe ourselves?  Hopefully something other than those heavy T-shirts I like!

Our wardrobe is mystery, what confounds the world.  (Maybe confounding ourselves!)  Remember the material: compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.  Putting on those virtues seems a sure-fire way of being branded “a loser.”  They might seem a bit strange in our society, which too often is marked by selfishness and even cynicism.  But like I suggested earlier, what a joy it is to don that apparel.

The world indeed needs to see us as people of joy.  We need to see that in each other.  Please note, joy is not the same thing as happiness.  It is not an emotion.  Joy can be present even in times of sorrow.  That might be the surest test of it.  It is a deep awareness of being held and loved.  It is the fruit of the Holy Spirit (Ga 5:22).

When we open ourselves to everything we’ve heard: clothing ourselves with these joyful qualities, especially love; bearing with and forgiving one another; letting the peace of Christ rule in our hearts; allowing the word of Christ to dwell in us richly; teaching and admonishing each other in wisdom; being grateful and singing to God—then we are fulfilling verse 17.

“Whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”  It is our lifestyle.  It simply is who we are.  It’s not something artificial.  It is a sign that Jesus Christ, through the power of the Spirit, has transformed, and continues to transform us.  (And by the way, all of that crazy nonsense at the end of the chapter is also transformed and seen to be a relic to be relegated to the past.)

We are to clothe ourselves with joyful mystery.  We are to put on the Lord Jesus Christ.  Thanks be to God!

[1] Marcus Barth and Helmut Blanke, trans. Astrid B. Beck, Colossians: The Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 426.

Some of you may have heard this.  According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the shortest sermon ever preached was delivered by John Albrecht, an Episcopal priest in Michigan.  Apparently, he walked to the pulpit, paused for a moment, and then uttered a single word: “Love!”  He then sat down.  And, as the story goes, some of the church’s members claimed it was the best sermon he ever preached.[1]

Thinking about that one-word sermon, two possibilities come to mind.  The first one is here’s a guy who was definitely not prepared for Sunday morning!  The other possibility is here’s a guy who wanted to take being concise to a whole new level!  He picked a word super packed with meaning.  In fact, the word “love” is so full of meaning it’s almost impossible to define.

Haddaway, "What is Love?" gif

Ironically, because “love” is difficult to define, something else might be said about Rev. Albrecht’s one-word sermon: he picked an easy topic.  Some might suggest that one could offer any greeting card sentiment, any saccharine sweet emotional goo, when addressing the subject of love.  Fortunately, the epistle reading in 1 John 3 gives us some indicators to show what love is.

Near the end of the first century, the author (John the apostle or someone in his circle), deals with several issues, one of them being the question of love.  By this time, there increasingly is a belief that love is an inner, private matter.  That parallels a belief that salvation belongs to those possessing secret knowledge.

The Bible has a slightly different take.  Contrary to those who claim otherwise, and in harmony with the scriptural witness from the beginning, John describes love as something visible; it’s expressed with action.  Neither is it the private domain of some secret society.  That wasn’t the way of Jesus, the Good Shepherd.

Right before today’s scripture reading, verse 15 says, “All who hate a brother or sister are murderers.”  Contrast that with verse 16: “We know love by this, that he [speaking of Jesus] laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another.”  That is the way of the Good Shepherd.  Love doesn’t take life.  If anything, it lays down its life.

That’s followed with a fairly detailed example.  “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” (v. 17).  John sums up his point in verse 18: “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”  The Revised English Bible says, “love must not be a matter of theory or talk.

I’m from the South.  One of the cultural features of that part of the country is what’s been called “that southern hospitality.”  I suppose that means different things to different people.  One example might be the somewhat stereotypical request, “Come along over here.  How about a coool glass of lemonade, or should I get y’all some sweet tea?”  That reflects the slower pace of life in the old South.  Of course, as people from other parts of the US have migrated to the South—as well as people from around the world—that slower pace has speeded up a bit.  (But sweet tea is served in almost every restaurant we went to!)

Still, amazingly enough, hospitality wasn’t invented in the American South!  There is a very long tradition of hospitality in the church.  It’s the source of our word “hospital.”  Hospitality even precedes the church.  For example, the ancient Middle East insisted on the duties of a host.

I mention the subject of hospitality because it’s a perfect expression of the love described in our epistle reading.  Hospitality, much more than making sure we’ve offered our guests coffee or tea, is a deeply spiritual reality.  And as our country becomes less hospitable, it’s all the more noticeable by its absence.  At its heart, hospitality is about welcoming the stranger.

My wife and I are Benedictine oblates.  (Very quickly as a side note: those are people who read and live by the Rule of Benedict and who have a relationship with a particular Benedictine community.  Of course, there’s more to it.)

When we lived in Jamestown, we made frequent visits to the Benedictine monastery in Erie.  We were introduced to the Rule of Benedict, a document from the sixth century which provides insights for life together.  Chapter 53 of the Rule begins, “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, who said: ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed me (Mt 25:35).’”

Speaking of Benedictines, there’s a Benedictine monastery in eastern New York, not far from Poughkeepsie.  One of its residents, Brother Victor-Antoine d’Avila-Latourrette, tells this story in his book Blessings of the Daily:[2]

“A few years ago, I was awakened in the middle of the night by two women, mother and daughter, crying by the window.  I got dressed and descended the stairs to open the doors.  When we had a chance to sit down, the mother explained that they desperately needed a place for the night.  She explained that her present husband usually got drunk after work on Fridays and then would return home to abuse her daughter.  This was a Friday night and he had called, already drunk, saying he was on his way home.  Fearful of what might again happen, she got her daughter into the car and drove with her to the monastery.  She had never been here before, so I asked her why she chose to come here instead of going elsewhere.  She answered, ‘I read about you in the newspaper, and I knew that if I came here I would not be turned away.’

Brother Victor-Antoine d’Avila-Latourrette

“After making sure they were all right, I led them into our small guesthouse and quickly prepared their beds.  They were safe for the night.  Unfortunately, there was no more I could do except to pray for them.  The following morning, after breakfast, I suggested that we call social services and seek the advice of a social worker.  After making an appointment to see the social worker, they left and I never heard from them again.

“People like these are no different from some of the guests and pilgrims who, for reasons of their own, request to partake of our monastic hospitality.  The important thing, however, is not their diverse motives but that during the short time they spend here they come to experience something of the peace of God—the peace that everyone seeks, even when not aware of it.”

We have that opportunity here.  We have the opportunity to welcome the stranger, to extend the peace of God.  And I’m not just talking about welcoming people into our worship services.  And by the way, welcoming means more than just saying, “How are you doing?”

What do people experience when they visit here?  Do they encounter the peace of Christ?  (And I’m talking about more than the part of the service when we shake hands and say, “The peace of Christ be with you.”)  Do they encounter a frosty or dismissive environment?

Still, I’m thinking of other ways we can extend hospitality.  Life is, after all, an endless series of hellos and goodbyes.  Every time we encounter someone, there’s the invitation to welcome them as Christ.

I’ll admit, I’m not terribly fond of rude, ungrateful people, but the goal is to receive them as Christ.  No matter who is standing in front of us, the point is to remember that it’s Christ we’re serving.  It might also help to remember when we ourselves have been rude and ungrateful!

Certainly love requires patience with each other, bearing with each other’s faults.  Within ourselves, this is a near impossible task.  We need help.

Franciscan priest Richard Rohr talks about this.[3]  “God is always bigger than you imagined or expected or even hoped.  When you see people going to church and becoming smaller instead of larger, you have every reason to question whether the practices or sermons or sacraments or liturgies are opening them to an authentic God experience.

“On a practical level such experiences will feel like a new freedom to love, and you wonder where it comes from…  Clearly, you are participating in a Love that’s being given to you.  You are not creating this.  You are not generating this.  It is being generated through you and in you and for you.”

As I draw near my conclusion, there’s a paradox of love I want to mention.  It’s this: love is, by its very nature, voluntary—it can’t be coerced.  Yet at the same time, failure to love isn’t an option!  Our scripture says the Lord commands us to “love one another” (v. 23).  Without love, the very fabric of human social existence falls apart.  The power of force, the power of law, isn’t sufficient to hold us all together.  Love has its own ways of being an enforcer.

For our own sake, for the sake of everyone else, for the sake of our planet, we’re compelled to freely choose love!  Only then can we be accountable to each other.  Only then can we be hospitable to each other.  Only then can we welcome each other as Christ.

[1] christchurchepiscopal.org/?p=3042

[2] Brother Victor-Antoine d’Avila-Latourrette, Blessings of the Daily (Liguori, MO:  Liguori/Triumph, 2002), 300-1.

[3] lovewins.us/1203/freedom-for-love

I’ve noticed an annual occurrence in the days after Thanksgiving.  (Sometimes in the days after Halloween!)  A certain song begins to be heard in stores, to appear in TV commercials.  In the holly jolly verse of Andy Williams, here’s how it begins: “It’s the most wonderful time of the year / With the kids jingle belling / And everyone telling you ‘Be of good cheer’ / It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

He goes on to reinforce his case: “It’s the hap- happiest season of all / With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings / When friends come to call / It’s the hap- happiest season of all.”

We are currently in the midst of those days that our friend Andy referred to as “the most wonderful time of the year.”  However, I don’t think he was singing about Advent.  And I’m quite certain that the last thing those commercials want to encourage is a sense of awareness, a sense of expectancy, a sense of watchfulness.  No, those commercials want us to sleepwalk through the stores—or maybe fight our way through the stores—and buy everything in sight.

A line from the song I find especially interesting is, “And everyone telling you ‘Be of good cheer.’”  It sounds like a state of being that can be commanded.  Just flip a switch, and lo and behold, you’re cheerful!  I order you to be happy.

Today’s epistle reading begins, “Rejoice always” (v. 16).  It might be argued St. Paul is doing the same thing.  Even if you’re sick as a dog—even if your heart is heavy—even if you’re dying from embarrassment and want to hide from the world, let’s put a smile on that face!

The passage comes at the end of 1 Thessalonians.  It is a series of final instructions.  “Rejoice always” is followed by Paul’s direction to “pray without ceasing, [and to] give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (vv. 17-18).

Always rejoice; always pray; always give thanks.  Just like that!  Some might say the apostle is being dismissive of people’s everyday reality.

If it is a matter of emotion, following the example of our song, being “of good cheer” in “the hap- happiest season of all,” then maybe he is being dismissive.  Maybe he is emotionally tone deaf.  And maybe we also do that, if we (ever so slightly) criticize people for having certain feelings—feelings we don’t think they should have, or we don’t want to deal with.

But I think there’s more to it than that.  I don’t think the apostle Paul is quite that shallow.

I’ll start by asking, “What does it mean to rejoice?”  Are we simply talking about an emotion?  Are we talking about a matter of feeling good, even feeling wonderful?  It’s safe to say rejoicing includes feelings, but we can’t ignore how verse 18 ends.  After telling the Thessalonians to always rejoice, always pray, and always give thanks, Paul adds “for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”  He doesn’t leave it at the level of emotion.  There’s something more.

Eugene Peterson, who I’ve mentioned before, is a retired Presbyterian minister who has written tons of books and has produced the paraphrase of the Bible called The Message.  He tells a story of joy (some would say, the lack thereof), during a worship service at a church he was visiting.[1]

He begins, “There was a couple in front of us with two bratty kids.  Two pews behind us there was another couple with their two bratty kids making a lot of noise.  This is mostly an older congregation.  So these people are set in their ways.  Their kids have been gone a long time.  And so it wasn’t a very nice service; it was just not very good worship.  But afterwards I saw half a dozen of these elderly people come up and put their arms around the mother, touch the kids, sympathize with her.  They could have been irritated.

“Now why do people go to a church like that when they can go to a church that has a nursery, is air conditioned, and all the rest?  Well, because they’re Lutherans.  They don’t mind being miserable!  Norwegian Lutherans!”

He continues, “And this same church recently welcomed a young woman with a baby and a three-year-old boy.  The children were baptized a few weeks ago.  But there was no man with her.  [She has] never married; each of the kids has a different father.  She shows up at church and wants her children baptized.  She’s a Christian and wants to follow in the Christian way.  So a couple from the church acted as godparents.  Now there are three or four couples in the church who every Sunday try to get together with her.

“Now, where is the ‘joy’ in that church?  These are dour Norwegians!  But there’s a lot of joy.  There’s an abundant life going, but it’s not abundant in the way a non-Christian would think.  I think there’s a lot more going on in churches like this; they’re just totally anticultural.  They’re full of joy and faithfulness and obedience and care.  But you sure wouldn’t know it by reading the literature of church growth.”

We’re dealing with stuff that has real depth; it isn’t superficial or trivial.  Paul’s injunction to “pray without ceasing” is in the same category.

One of the hallmarks of Reformed theology is that life is to be led coram Deo.  In Latin, that means “before God.”  It speaks to the awareness of being in the presence of God—of being before the face of God.  As R. C. Sproul says, “To live all of life coram Deo is to live a life of integrity.  It is a life of wholeness that finds its unity and coherency in the majesty of God.”[2]

That is a life of praying without ceasing.  It’s not a question of repeatedly saying or thinking prayers.  When I went to the Assemblies of God college in Florida, I knew a guy who it seemed finished every other sentence by murmuring, “Praise God.”  Maybe that was how he interpreted “praying without ceasing.”  I thought there was something wrong with him mentally.

A fourth-century hermit, one of the desert Christians, used to say, “Ceaseless prayer soon heals the mind.”[3]  Far from being the sign of a nervous tic, a twitch, praying without ceasing brings life and health.  It opens one up to a life of gratitude, which is third on Paul’s list.

He continues in rapid-fire succession with his instructions, which I’ll briefly skim.  Verse 19 says, “Do not quench the Spirit.”  That covers a lot.  Do not extinguish the inner flame.  “Do not despise the words of prophets, but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil” (vv. 20-22).  Listen to those who speak the word from God, but also test it.  Don’t be foolish; don’t just fall for anything.

Right in the center of our scripture reading are verses 23 and 24.  “May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.  The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this.”

“The God of peace”: why use that description?  There are plenty of other names of God to choose from.  And why pray that the God of peace will “sanctify you entirely”?

Paul’s prayer is that his hearers be purified through and through.  When we are made holy—when we are made whole—in spirit and soul and body, then we are at peace.  But remember, this isn’t just about emotions!  And in the same way, this isn’t just about us as individuals.  Paul is speaking to the community.  This Word of God is for the community.

Sometimes people chant, “No justice, no peace!”  If there’s no justice, there can be no peace.  Here’s another one: “No justice, no joy!”

Today is Gaudete Sunday.  There’s some more Latin for you!  It means “rejoice.”  Today’s epistle reading begins with “Rejoice.”  The pink candle, which represents joy, comes from seeing Advent as a season of penitent reflection, preparing ourselves for the Lord.  The third Sunday means we’re almost there; let’s have a joyful pause.

Let’s go back to the question I asked earlier.  What does it mean to rejoice?  What if we don’t feel like rejoicing?  Remember, Paul and his friends had plenty of hardships.  Remember those stern Norwegians!  There’s a sense in which insisting on joy means holy and loving defiance.

It’s not about emotion; it’s about choice.  Verse 25 is well taken: “Beloved, pray for us.”  Pray for us!

How can we stay on that path of joy, prayer, and gratitude?  It happens by the grace of God through Christ in the Spirit of a loving, caring community.  (Or should I say: a rejoicing, praying, grateful community?)  Christian life, by definition, cannot be lived alone.

We rejoice when we embrace.  We rejoice when we laugh together.  We rejoice when we weep. We rejoice when we come to the table.  We rejoice when, in holy and loving defiance, we proclaim God’s peaceable kingdom in the midst of an anxious and fearful world.  Rejoice in the Lord.  Rejoice always.

[1] bccisbroken.blogspot.com/2006/12/spirituality-for-all-wrong-reasons.html

[2] www.ligonier.org/blog/what-does-coram-deo-mean

[3] www.baylor.edu/content/services/document.php/92504.pdf

A couple of years ago, I led a discussion of a book by church consultant Peter Steinke, Congregational Leadership in Anxious Times.[1]  We were talking about the ability to keep one’s head when emotions might overwhelm.  At one point, the discussion took a rather strange turn.  I will admit that I was responsible for that strange turn!

I mentioned the movie World War Z.  It’s about zombies taking over the planet.  It stars Brad Pitt as Gerry Lane, who works with the UN.

He hears about a wall that the Israelis have built to keep out the zombies.  So he boards one of the few planes left flying and goes to Israel, to check it out.  Upon arrival, Gerry meets Jurgen Warmbrunn, an Israeli official, and asks how they could have known to build a wall.  He responds, saying they intercepted a message from an Indian general who said they were fighting “the Rakshasha.  Translation, zombies.”  (And yes, I did consult the internet for lines that I had forgotten!)

Gerry looks at him in disbelief.  “Jurgen Warmbrunn,” he says, “high-ranking official in the Mossad.  Described as sober, efficient, not terribly imaginative.  And yet, you build a wall because you read a communiqué that mentions the word ‘zombie.’”

Warmbrunn sympathizes with his disbelief.  Then he talks about events in which the Jews thought they were safe:  concentration camps in the 30s, the ‘72 Olympics, and war in 1973.  People doubted the danger until it was too late.

“So,” he says, “we decided to make a change.  The tenth man.  If nine of us look at the exact same information and arrive at the same conclusion, it’s the duty of the tenth man to disagree.  No matter how improbable it may seem, the tenth man has to start digging on the assumption that the other nine are wrong.”

Gerry asks, “You were that tenth man?”

He replies, “Precisely.  Since everyone assumed that this talk of ‘zombies’ was cover for something else, I began my investigation on the assumption that when they said ‘zombies,’ they meant zombies.”

Unfortunately for them, the wall doesn’t protect them very long.  Some refugees are singing loudly, and the zombies outside are drawn to the noise.  They climb the wall, with the humans trapped inside.  Like fish in a barrel, they quickly become dinner.  Of course, Brad Pitt escapes!

What I found interesting was the concept of the “tenth man (or woman),” one who disagrees with the others, no matter how unlikely their position might be.

In John 20, I wonder if we can see Thomas, in a way, playing the role of the tenth man.  Going back to my original comment, can we possibly see him as the one who keeps his head when emotions might overwhelm?  I’ll admit that would give his nickname “doubting Thomas” a certain wisdom and awareness of his role!

I think St. Thomas has been unfairly portrayed.  It’s not like he’s the only one who doubts that Jesus has been raised from the dead!  Maybe the reason he gets singled out is because he’s the only one absent on that first Easter evening.  Being the odd one out is always a tricky situation.

Here’s a quick side note.  On that evening, the scripture says the disciples were behind locked doors “for fear of the Jews” (v. 19).  John wrote his gospel in the 90s, near the end of the first century.  By that time, the split between Judaism and Christianity was a couple of decades old, and there was some Jewish persecution of the church.  Still, the reference to “the Jews” is unfortunate.  Throughout history, not understanding the context, people have targeted the Jews as bad guys.  That’s always been a grave injustice.

Now, back to Thomas.  Not everyone has given him grief.  Like the other apostles, who took the gospel to different places, Thomas went on a trip of his own.  Tradition says he headed to the east, eventually arriving in India.  That’s also where he was martyred.  There is a branch of the church known as the St. Thomas Christians.  They still exist, and they trace their history back to the apostle.

Having said that, we still have to acknowledge that Thomas does doubt.  So what about it?  Nancy Rockwell, in her blog “The Bite in the Apple,” has some thoughts about that.[2]

“Like a breath of fresh air, Doubting Thomas enters the over-lilyed atmosphere of Easter.  He’s reliably among us on the Sunday after Easter—and on every Sunday.  He’s part of us, steadily, reassuringly.  He anchors us.”  She admits that believing someone has come back from the grave can be a bit much!

Again, Thomas isn’t the only one in his group who doubts.  He is, however, the only one who gives full voice to it; he’s the only one who states it plainly.  Rockwell draws a parallel between his situation and the ones we find ourselves in.

Doubting Thomas, she says, “belonged to the group, those who believed, those who said they did but didn’t, and those who had questions but were afraid to pipe up.”  She continues, with a comment we might find surprising, “Churches are not communities of believers, but communities of people who have questions, who doubt, who hope, who come to find something out.”

I don’t know about you, but I have been in churches where you dare not ask any questions.  Not swallowing everything hook, line, and sinker, is considered to be a no-no, even sinful.  There’s a saying that goes, you are supposed to check your brain at the door.

I’m not sure what they do with Jesus saying to love “the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind” (Mt 22:37).

Questions are good.  I have questions, and I also have doubts.  Kids have questions, and they also have doubts.  When they come to us with them, it’s okay to say, “I don’t have all the answers,” rather than giving some rehearsed response.  It’s okay to say that to each other.

It’s a good thing when we’re a community that welcomes questions, especially the question, “Why?”  That’s a nice one!  It can also drive you crazy.

Earlier in John’s gospel, there’s an episode that I think shows the courage of Thomas.  (That explains the word “daring” in the title!)

In chapter 11, Jesus gets word that his dear friend Lazarus is at death’s door.  He doesn’t immediately take off, but when he says it’s time to go, his disciples remind him that he’s a wanted man.  If the authorities hear he’s back in town, there’s a jail cell with his name on it!  And there might be something worse with his name on it.

Thomas speaks up and says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (v. 16).  Some might claim that he’s being a naysayer.  Some would chastise him for sending out negative vibes.  Some might say, “Where’s your faith, Thomas?”

Maybe those are fair complaints.  But it seems to me that we can also see him demonstrating not only courage, but loyalty.  It looks like he’s ready to die with Jesus.  And when his doubts are answered in chapter 20, with Jesus appearing before him, Thomas proclaims, “My Lord and my God!” (v. 28).  For many people, this is the highlight of the story—when Thomas finally believes.

Our friend Nancy has a slightly different spin.  Three different times Jesus says, “Peace be with you” to these “emotionally exhausted people” (vv. 19, 21, 26).

She says, “The peace of Christ is given to all of them, including Thomas in his doubting.  This peace Christ gives is not just for believers, and it does not separate believers from unbelievers.  The peace of Christ does not separate.  Everything about Christ joins people together, across all the separations:  sin, judgment, defeat; gender, culture, faith.”

There is immense power in the peace of Christ.  It is indeed extended to all, even to those of us who sometimes doubt, whether that doubt is daring or not!  That’s what our liturgical use of it in worship is all about.  Passing the peace of Christ isn’t a matter of chit-chat, of catching up on current events.  It is a matter of binding ourselves together in the bond of peace.  Or better, recognizing and embracing the bond of peace that’s already there.

It might seem like having doubts and the peace of Christ contradict each other.  But God comes to us in the contradictions of our lives.

About these contradictions, Henri Nouwen mentions, “being home while feeling homeless…being popular while feeling lonely, being believers while feeling many doubts.”  These contradictions “can frustrate, irritate, and even discourage us.”[3]  Can any of us relate to this?  Can any of us relate to the father who, upon bringing his child to Jesus for healing, said, “I believe; help my unbelief!”? (Mk 9:24).

We need not be defeated or paralyzed.  “These same contradictions can bring us into touch with a deeper longing, for the fulfillment of a desire that lives beneath all desires and that only God can satisfy.  Contradictions, thus understood, create the friction that can help us move toward God.”

That’s the gift that Thomas discovers.  On the other side of his questions—and even his doubt—he finds God.

I wonder, is it possible to admit that it’s necessary to question, even to doubt?  Is it necessary to do that in order to love our Lord with heart, soul, and mind?  I don’t have the final answer on that.  As I like to do, I am posing the question!

Still, after Thomas’ eyes are opened, Jesus gives him this to chew on.  “Have you believed because you have seen me?  Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” (v. 29).

Who are these blessed “who have not seen and yet have come to believe”?  To begin with, there are the people who first hear John’s gospel; they live near the end of the 1st century.  This includes Christians one, two, even three generations after Jesus.  And it includes those down through the centuries, leading to us today.

So I think I’m safe in saying:  take heart.  Remember, churches are more than communities of believers; they are communities of people who have questions, who doubt, who hope, who come to find something out.  And thanks be to God, our Lord is faithful and patient with us.  Our Lord extends peace and pronounces us blessed when we come to believe, no matter how long it takes.  That’s what it means to be the people of the risen Christ.

[1] Peter Steinke, Congregational Leadership in Anxious Times (Herndon, VA:  The Alban Institute, 2006).

[2] www.patheos.com/blogs/biteintheapple/doubting-thomas

[3] wp.henrinouwen.org/daily_meditation_blog/?p=3708