A Fourth Church Sermon by Calum I. MacLeod

April 18, 2004 | 9:30 and 11:00 a.m.

Risen in Deed

Calum I. MacLeod
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 121
Revelation 1:4–8
John 20:19–31

The sanctuary seems like a different place compared to last week, doesn’t it? I don’t think there were any ropes on Michigan Avenue herding you into church this morning, as there were last week on Easter Sunday. It’s an easier Sunday for our ushers, perhaps much to their relief. Some of you may have decided to stay away or worship at another church last week, because you know how busy it gets here, with the queues going around the building. Some of you may indeed be here for the first time, or some might have been here last week and were moved to come back to reflect and explore further the meaning of the season of Easter. Delighted to see you. They call it “Low Sunday” traditionally—I’m not sure if that’s because of low attendance—but I was thinking we could call it “There ain’t nobody here but us chickens Sunday.”

This is the Sunday when, after the euphoria and the Hallelujah Choruses of Easter Day, we have had a week to reflect on and to move into the reality of our broken and fearful world. And then the questions come. That’s going to be the focus of our meditation this morning. But I thought just to be fair to you, before we got too heavy, I’d offer a little lightheartedness. My favorite poem for this season, by the English poet Roger McGough, seems very apt for this beautiful spring day. It’s called “The Fight of the Year.”

And there goes the bell for the third month
and Winter comes out of its corner looking groggy
Spring leads with a left to the head
followed by a sharp right to the body
daffodils
primroses
crocuses
snowdrops
lilacs
violets
pussywillow
Winter can’t take much more punishment
and Spring shows no sign of tiring
tadpoles
squirrels
baalambs
badgers
bunny rabbits
mad march hares
horses and hounds
Spring is merciless
Winter won’t go the full twelve rounds
bobtail clouds
scallywaggy winds
the sun
a pavement artist
in every town
A left to the chin
and Winter’s down!
1 tomatoes
2 radish
3 cucumber
4 onions
5 beetroot
6 celery
7 and any
8 amount
9 of lettuce
10 for dinner
Winter’s out for the count
Spring is the winner!

Now let’s hope that the Chicago winter doesn’t come right back at me for doing that. I hope that wasn’t too premature.

In our tradition of Christianity, we recognize that Easter is certainly not a spring festival in the sense of the pagan traditions, but we find in nature the hope of new life, of the buds coming through the ground as symbols—as reminders—of the new life in Christ. Certainly Hopkins and the nature poets used imagery like that, so it is not bad for us to hear a nature poem this morning.

But this is, of course, the Sunday of questions. The Sunday when we go to the room and encounter again Thomas, Doubting Thomas as he’s known. R. S. Thomas, Welsh Anglican priest and a major religious poet, has a poem in which he reflects on Thomas and on the experience of the resurrection. The poem is entitled “The Answer.” In the beginning it says, “And now the questions occur.”

I wonder if that’s true for you this week and this morning—asking the questions that occur. What does it mean to say Christ has risen? What does resurrection of the body mean? Are we talking about something physical here? About life being breathed back in? About resuscitation? Or we might be angry in our questions: “What do you expect of me—to suspend my disbelief? We’re rational people.” This whole idea of resurrection may indeed offend our sensibilities. Some of us might go to scripture to find guidance as we ask the questions, only to discover that the scriptural witness itself is not of one mind. In the Gospels, Mark leaves us with that great question mark of the empty tomb and the women who were afraid. Matthew expands that tradition to make the earth-shattering experience of the earthquake. Luke offers us that mysterious journey on the road to Emmaus as the disciples walk with the stranger, but they don’t recognize that this stranger is the risen Christ until he breaks bread with them. And John, in his various ways, offers a Jesus who seems to be able to come into rooms where doors are closed and yet who offers the physical wounds to be seen and to be touched. Perhaps we shouldn’t think of Thomas so much as the doubter. Perhaps we should think of him as the questioner.

I certainly have empathy for Thomas. If you look at the text, you see that in the appearance of Jesus when Thomas wasn’t there, Jesus showed the disciples the wounds, so they had the benefit of that. Perhaps it wasn’t that unfair for Thomas to say, “Well, you saw the wounds; why shouldn’t I?” Denise Levertov, in a poem about Thomas, reflects on the fact that Thomas is called the twin. “My twin,” she says. And so we recognize that our questions are valid—indeed, that even as we look at the reflections of those who claim the Christian faith for themselves, we find different understandings of the resurrection. N. T. Wright and Marcus Borg, two eminent New Testament scholars, write in their book The Meaning of Jesus that they have different ways of understanding the resurrection. Back to R. S. Thomas, to that poem “The Answer.” The poet asks,

Is there no way other than thought of answering the challenge?
There is an anticipation of it to the point of dying
There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in a place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body.

R. S. Thomas is suggesting here too that, yes, questions are natural and they’re a part of who we are and they’re important, but in the end, it’s not about historical inquiry or scientific proofs; it’s about love—in his beautiful phrase, “love’s risen body.”

David Jenkins was a controversial bishop in England in the ’80s and ’90s. He was Bishop of Durham. I’ve included one of his quotes on the front of the bulletin for you this morning. Jenkins famously said—and was often misquoted about this—“The resurrection is much more than a conjuring trick with bones.” Jürgen Moltmann, the German theologian, puts it in a different way but says the same thing. Moltmann says, “Easter is not an isolated miracle confined to Jesus alone. It is the hidden beginning of the open new creation of all things.” The resurrection is not a moment in time in history in Galilee; it is an event that transcends history, that stands outside of the linear time that we understand. It’s the breaking in of a new thing, precisely the promise of God’s reign effected in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Paul puts it this way in Second Corinthians in these familiar words that we hear often at our assurance of forgiveness: “God was in Christ reconciling the world to God’s own self and entrusting to us, God’s people, the ministry of reconciliation.” As our opneing hymn has it, “They cut me down but I leapt up high. I am the life that will never, never die.” And how do we know? How do we know?

“Christ is risen!” we proclaim. “He is risen indeed!” we respond. Risen indeed and risen in deeds. Risen in deeds that offer to the world acts of hope and love and reconciliation, glimpses of the kingdom of God that “roll the stone from our minds” and allow us to see the possibility of new things, of new relationships.

A story from “The Desert Fathers”: Abbot Anastasius had a book of very fine parchment which was worth 20 pence. It contained both the Old and the New Testaments in full. Once a certain monk came to visit Anastasius and, seeing the book, made off with it, so that when Anastasius went to read the scripture that day, he found that the book had gone and knew at once that the monk had taken it. But he did not send after him for fear that the monk might add the sin of perjury to that of theft. Now that monk entered the city to sell the book. He wanted 18 pence for it. The buyer said, “Give me the book so that I may find out if it is worth that much money.” With that he took the book to the holy Anastasius and said, “Father, take a look at this and tell me if you think it’s worth as much as 18 pence.” Anastasius said, “Yes, it is a fine parchment and at 18 pence it is a bargain.” So the buyer went back to the monk and said, “Here is your money. I showed the book to Father Anastasius and he said it was worth 18 pence.” The monk was stunned. “Was that all he said? Did he say nothing else?” “No he did not say a word more than that.” “Well,” said the monk, “I’ve changed my mind and don’t want to sell the book after all.” And then he went back to Anastasias and begged him with many tears to take the book back. But Anastasias said gently, “No, brother, keep it. It is my present to you.” The monk said, “If you do not take it back, I shall have no peace.” And after that the monk dwelt with Anastasias for the rest of his life.

Glimpses of a new way of living. And glimpses of a new understanding of who we are. Nicholas Wolterstoff, a philosopher from Yale who was a professor at Calvin College for many years, lost a son to a tragic climbing accident. His son was twenty-five years old. Later he wrote a book, a collection of his thoughts, called Lament for a Son. And in that, he reflects on the fact that when Jesus met Thomas, Jesus still had the wounds. Wolterstoff says, “The wounds were Christ’s identity.” He says,

To believe in Christ’s rising and death’s dying is also to live with the power and the challenge to rise up now from all our dark graves of suffering love. If sympathy for the world’s wounds is not enlarged by our anguish, if love for those around us is not expanded, if gratitude for what is good does not flame up, if insight is not deepened, if commitment to what is important is not strengthened, if aching for a new day is not intensified, if hope is weakened and faith diminished, if from the experience of death comes nothing good, then death has won. Death, be proud. So I shall struggle to live the reality of Christ’s rising and death’s dying.

Glimpses of a new understanding. And glimpses of a new way, glimpses so needed in our world. As I was preparing for this sermon yesterday and heard the news that another Palestinian leader had been assassinated—assuredly leading to more suicide bombs and to a greater downward cycle of violence in the Middle East—I kept hearing these words of Desmond Tutu’s Easter proclamation that perhaps we should say every Sunday when we gather: “Goodness is stronger than evil. Love is stronger hate. Light is stronger than darkness. Life is stronger than death. Victory is ours through him who loved us.” To be an Easter people is to live that—to seek and live out hope and love and reconciliation, to believe that spring will indeed defeat winter.

I came across a lovely prayer written by a Nicaraguan woman in the midst of the conflict in that country:

We are children of the sun are we,
who write in the shadows of evening,
who walk in the dark of night, who arise in the light of the dawn,
who go barefoot in the womb of the world,
who sow the field,
who grow the daily bread,
who know the language of the wind,
who see the rain fall on a parched land and on tired faces,
who plow the furrows of the old,
who bring the bones to bloom,
who consecrate bread in our own flesh,
who break chains and discover the way.

Christ is risen in deeds such as these. And all glory be to the risen One, whom to know is life abundant and whom to serve is perfect freedom. Amen.