Whitsunday

 Acts 2: 1-21

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from the Lord Jesus Christ, on this Feast Day of the Holy Spirit--on the modern Church Calendar the grand conclusion and finale of the 50-Day Easter Season.  Trumpets and flourishes.  A dazzling moment.   The traditional name “Whitsunday”from “White Sunday,” and referring to the status of this day as a great baptismal festival, in those ancient days when the liturgical colors for the day would have been not Red for the Spirit but all Easter resurrection white and gold, in the fresh baptismal robes of the newly baptized.

Where we start: the holiday Shavu’ot, on the Jewish calendar 50 days after Passover, the celebration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and in all ways the perfect day for Holy Spirit.  A perfect day.

In the Old Covenant the Torah is the instrument that transforms and guides the Chosen People in the way of holiness and in relationship with God.  The Torah that is the source of identity and purpose for God’s Israel.  And now in the New Covenant given at the Cross and confirmed in Easter we are all in faith gathered in by the Spirit of God and made a new people, a chosen nation, a royal priesthood, now we ourselves just like the disciples marked as Christ’s own forever and sent forth to do the work he has given us to do, to preach, to teach, to bind up the brokenhearted, to forgive and to bless. Our identity, our purpose.  The New Covenant doesn’t replace the Old, of course.  God speaks himself in the Word, he speaks himself in the Son, he speaks himself in the Holy Spirit.  The Torah and God’s Word continues to stand in its definitive way in our midst.  Now fulfilled and perfected.

Just for a moment this Whitsunday I want to pause over the first verse of the reading from Acts as we have heard it read first in English and then in that wonderful Pentecostal jumble of tongues. The story begins, Acts 2:1, “When the day of Pentecost had come, the disciples were all together in one place.” And I want to pause right there.

Pentecost, and they are “together in one place.” That place the Upper Room. In just a couple of months now for them a place of such powerful associations and sacred memory, a place of laughter and tears, made holy by such deep experiences. Here, where Jesus had gotten down on his knees to wash their feet. Where he had offered his heartfelt High Priestly prayer. Where he had broken the bread, blessed the cup, offered himself in a perfect promise.

That same room. Here where they had run on Good Friday to hide out in fear of the authorities. And where the women had come to find Peter and John and bring them to the Empty Tomb. Where the friends from Emmaus had come to tell their story of meeting that stranger along the way, who was suddenly revealed to them to be Jesus. Where Jesus himself then appeared, that same Easter evening. And where Jesus returned to be with them again a week later, this time Thomas being with them at the table.

They were “together in one place” here.  All of them. And for me at this moment it’s impossible to read this passage without thinking of that moment in John 17, our lesson from last week, as Bishop McConnell framed it for us so well in his sermon last Sunday, when Jesus prays in that High Priestly prayer, “that they may be one, as you father are in me and I in you, that they also may be one in us, may be perfectly one, that the world may believe that you have sent me.”

They burst out of that Upper Room on Pentecost morning on fire with the Spirit and full of power to preach the gospel and to teach all nations, and from that day forward the world would be turned upside down, never the same again.

And I would simply be reminded in this that in an era and a culture that so much values our individuality and self-direction and personal boundaries and constitutional autonomy, “my spiritual journey,” all of which are so important in so many ways, Jesus prays that we would be one, and the Spirit arrives when they, we, are all together.

We become complacent in our brokenness, so that for some there is even a rhetorical effort to turn that brokenness into a virtue. Which it most certainly isn’t, can never be. We are baptized into one body—and as incarnational and sacramental Christians it can never be enough to say that this is to be only a “spiritual” unity. Instead we pray always that we would be empowered and inspired to show forth in our lives what we profess by our faith. To put God’s love into action. To be doers of the Word, and not hearers only.

So about bridge-building. About making relationships and connections, and doing what we can in prayer, in thought, word, and deed, to be about reconciliation, to build our lives on the hope and the expectation and a fierce commitment to be ourselves the living witnesses of the life, death, and resurrection of our Lord in everything we do, and in a unity that is not simply spiritual but visible and transformational.  That they will know we are Christians by our love.  By word and action.  Always pointing to Jesus, who is the heart of our life, the head of the body.  Remembering always this word over us every week, from John 12, “and I when I am lifted up from the earth will draw all men unto me.”  The mission statement of the Cross.  To become then our mission statement.

All about “opening doors,” if I can shift gears and make use of that phrase, and recall what is going on here at St. Andrew’s in this season.  The overall title of our Capital Campaign and of the initiatives of repair and expansion and renewal that are now beginning.   The disciples had been in that Upper Room with the doors locked.  Hidden away.  But the promised gift of the Holy Spirit descended up them, and the doors are suddenly wide open, the new Israel of God bursting forth.  A continuation of the Easter theme, as that heavy stone was rolled away from the door of the tomb.  The final and triumphant fulfillment of the word of the angel, “you shall call his name Emmanuel, which means, ‘God with us.’”  God with us.  In this world and here to stay.

And that we would live that way already, here and now. To know that same promised gift of the Holy Spirit, the breath and expression of God, descending upon us, filling us.  One Body in Christ in baptism, one Body at the Table, one Body in the wide world.

An old acquaintance of mine, Bishop Tony Burton, who served for a number of years as a bishop in the Anglican Church of Canada before feeling a call to a return to parish ministry and then moving across the border and to the Episcopal Church to serve as Rector of the Church of the Incarnation in Dallas, Texas.  A very exciting and dynamic place, one of the largest congregations of the Episcopal Church, annual attendance in their Saturday and Sunday services approaching 2,000.  And something they have in common with us is that they also live in a parish facility that was designed in another era and which needs significant expansion and renovation to meet their missionary needs for the 21^st century.  Just like us.  And last week Tony announced the final results of their Capital Campaign.  As I will be doing later this year.  Their Campaign somewhat different in scale, as they raised and then have exceeded $25 million  for their new century goals.  (Texas!)   But again, deep down with the same kinds of goals and concerns for the stewardship of resources for mission and ministry.  And Tony had a great quote, as I read the story, which I copied to echo here for us, talking about the near doubling of their congregational numbers of the past decade, and then of this incredibly successful campaign.  He said that despite the dazzling numbers his congregation's focus "is not” and must not be “about growth, but” about “changed lives."

"Size does not make a church better,” nor does money, nor beautiful buildings, “ but if its clergy and parishioners are sensitive to the work of the Holy Spirit in their lives, God can cause their work in His name to grow a parish that is a resource of great blessing . . . .”

A good word for us, about Holy Spirit, Holy Spirit, as we sail on into this season of growth, development, expansion, renewal.   As we hold this precious gift in our hands, everything about St. Andrew’s, who we are, who we are becoming.  With the Whitsunday and Pentecost prayer that God the Holy Spirit would create in us clean hearts and renewed minds and strengthened lives to be good stewards, to be good and faithful and effective witnesses, in all that we say and all that we do, in what we build, in what we share: that he will work in us and through us in a good and wholesome and powerful way to accomplish his purposes.

A great season, a great moment.  Pentecost.  Watch the disciples out there in the streets of Jerusalem.  The excitement, the fun, the refreshing joy of that moment.  Pretty cool.  Long ago, but still so much a part of who we are, who we can be.  And to pray and give thanks, remembering those disciples two thousand years ago, and all those in every generation since then, and the heroes of Christian life that build this place and set us on our course, for 176 years at St. Andrew’s and 107 years in this beautiful church, that we in our turn each one of us, all of us together, may have the grace to glorify Christ in our day.

Sunday after The Ascension

Bishop McConnell will be preaching at St. Andrew's this morning, and if I am able to get an electronic copy of his sermon I will post it here later this week.  In the meantime I would simply re-post here my sermon for this Sunday in Year C, 2010.

Sunday after the Ascension, 2010

Seventh Sunday of Easter
Acts 16: 16-34; Revelation 22: 12-21; John 17: 20-26

I heard a friend say about someone, "I guess he thinks he's God's gift to humanity." My thought: that's quite a responsibility. Perhaps a critical thought during these days of Ascensiontide.

You might think there would be a sense of let-down in the days following Ascension Thursday.

Whatever it was that happened up at the top of the mountain, one thing seems sure, and that is that the vivid and intense experience of the presence of the risen Christ is no longer with them in quite the way that he was before. 

He was lifted up into heaven, but they are left behind, returning to that upper room in Jerusalem where only a few weeks before they had been with him at the Last Supper, and where on the evening of Easter Sunday he had returned and shown himself to them. No longer in death but now with them in the fullness of his glorious resurrection.

Now returning to the Upper Room, without him.

But of course the lessons appointed for us this Sunday are not about his absence, but about his continuing presence and his power.

The power that shakes the ground under the jail in Philippi and knocks down the walls. And even more, the power that takes hold of the life of the jailer, who is so transformed by the presence of Christ in Paul and Silas that he is brought to his knees and then lifted up himself into a saving life of faith.

The power of the vision of St. John the Divine, risen and ascended and ruling Christ on the throne, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the root and the flower of Israel, the fountain of living water, bringing forth life, refreshing, fulfilling and completing. What a great vision that is. Sacred poetry.

And the potential of Christ’s power to come alive in us, in the words of St. John’s gospel, coming from the great prayer of Jesus on the night of Holy Thursday. Jesus thanks the Father, “the glory that you have given me I have given them . . . .” And we would just pause over that. Thinking that we all are lesser lights certainly compared to Jesus himself. But that’s not what he says. “The glory that you have given me I have given them.” Think about that as we brush our teeth in the morning and look into the mirror.

Thinking about how we are called to the stewardship of that glory. To be "God's gift to humanity." His grace in us, his holiness, the gift to heal the broken, to forgive and bring about reconciliation. Each generation taking its turn.

Most probably we would say not doing such a great job of it. That we would say, “if you want to know what God is all about, if you want to know the heart of Jesus, just look at his church.”

Maybe we have our moments, every generation or two. But it is perhaps at least an opportunity for the grace of humility. Fighting with one another, breaking relationship, abuse and cover-up, power and greed, political ambition. You know all the headlines. Sometimes about the other guys. All too often about us too. I remember singing the song around the campfire at youth retreats:“they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love, and they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” 

But it is the Sunday after the Ascension and the Sunday before Whitsunday and Pentecost, and it’s a day not to feel left behind but instead to be at the threshold and doorway to a new and great adventure, not simply to see Christ and to know him, but even more to be filled with his power, energized, equipped. Pick ourselves up if we need to, brush ourselves off. Start again.

That we might feel that anywhere. Here at St. Andrew’s. In each of our homes, as we live our lives. Anywhere and everywhere, at all times and in all places. Like Paul and Silas, singing hymns of praise into the night until no jail on earth can hold them in, until not one who hears them singing can reject the invitation.

Knowing him as John the Divine knew him in that ecstatic vision, Jesus himself lifted up to the throne of heaven. And it’s a whole new ballgame for us now--that his power, the power that came through his cross, the power of his resurrection, and his Holy Spirit now working in us, working in and through us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.

It is a great gift, a great responsibility, the opportunity of our lives. “The glory you have given me, I have given them.”

Annual Visitation: Sunday in Ascensiontide

We will be delighted to welcome our bishop, the Rt. Rev. Dorsey W.M. McConnell, as he joins us at St. Andrew's Church, Highland Park, Pittsburgh, to preside and preach at the 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. services of the Holy Communion on the Seventh Sunday of Easter, the Sunday after the Ascension, May 12, 2013.  The 11 a.m. choral service will also include the Rites of Confirmation and Reception into the Communion of the Episcopal Church.  

Sixth Easter

Acts 16: 9-15; Revelation 21: 10, 22- 22: 5; John 5: 1-9

I’ve commented before about heilsgeschichte.  This wonderful German word in the field of Biblical studies, to refer to the great story, the holy story, the overarching narrative of the scriptures. To say that we have in scripture not simply an anthology, a collection of separate texts, written by different authors in different languages in distinctive historical contexts, but deep down, or over all, one story, one message, God speaking, in and through.  One word of invitation.  A gift of his self-expression.  In the first chapter, fiat lux, the word of God brings forth all that is.  And here in the 21^st chapter of the Revelation,  as Paul Harvey used to say, the end of the story, climax.  The New Jerusalem of God comes down from heaven, a bride adorned for her bridegroom.  And God is all in all.

I have shared before the thought that the Easter story could be absolutely true and still not mean anything.  It could just be a chapter in Ripley’s Believe it or not.  Come and hear the story of the man who died but didn’t stay dead.  Scientists can’t explain it.  The one living creature in all recorded history to beat the odds.  Lucky for him.

But in the midst of this Easter season and on this Sunday before Ascension, what we have before us is the assertion and affirmation, not simply that the Easter story is true, but that it means everything.  Because it is a story not simply about what we learn happened on Easter Sunday morning to Jesus, but because it is a story that is also about us.   You and me, here and now.  And not just about us, but about everybody, and everything. 

The story began back in Genesis in the Garden.  Those two trees.  The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.  The Apple.  All the calamity and brokenness.   Someone said, if you think things are fine, you aren’t paying attention.   Not just a little messiness around the edges, though we will try to keep things prettied-up on the surface, and to turn our eyes away when we can.  But corruption and the grip of sin and death all the way down.   A page and a half into this great big old Bible book, and the whole story runs off the rails.  Looks pretty grim.

And we know deep down what’s in the heart of that Macedonian in Paul’s dream-vision, as he ponders and prays over his call to the stewardship of the gospel and the message of Easter.  “Come over and help us.  Come over and help us.”

And simply to say, that the Easter story is true, and means everything.  The river flowing from the throne and heart of God and of the Lamb, from the Cross of Jesus and out into all creation, the vast expanse of interstellar space, this earth our island home, and into our hearts and minds and lives.  “The river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing form the throne of God and of the lamb through the middle of the street of the city.  The New Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God.  On either side of the river is the tree of life, and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.  The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it.  And there will be no more night, no need of light or lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.

What’s left of Easter is the question Jesus asks the that disabled man at the Bethesda Pool, a question that is meant for him and for all of us.  The question of Easter.   What about you?  Do you want to be healed? 

To say yes this morning, yes to Easter, yes to Jesus.   

Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbors, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways, draw near with faith.  To say yes.

Fifth Easter, and Annual Meeting

Acts 11: 1-18

Day of the 176^th Annual Parish Meeting 

of St. Andrew’s Church

Highland Park, Pittsburgh

Grace and peace friends, good morning on this spring Sunday, the Fifth Sunday of Easter season and certainly very much in my mind and on my heart today as the occasion of the 176^th Annual Parish Meeting of St. Andrew’s Church. 

My friend Pam Foster, who was for many years Associate Rector of our neighbor, Calvary Church in East Liberty, was asked once about her interest in developing a specialization in “interim ministry,” and her reply included a comment I’ll always remember, and that it’s important I think for all of us to remember.  Very simply, she said, “all ministry is interim ministry.” 

Susy and I had a wonderful friend out in California, Beth Renning.  In her 90’s.  And one day, when a group of friends were engaging in what I remember used to be a very common Episcopalian activity, though I don’t think it happens around here--complaining about something the Rector had done--she commented, with remarkable equanimity, “Rectors come, and Rectors go.”   Which is a good concept to hold on to as we will refer today to this Annual Meeting as our “176^th.”  My 19^th Annual Meeting of St. Andrew’s Church. 

Perhaps some are visiting St. Andrew’s this morning for the first time.  And welcome, and it would be fun if you have some time today to have you come next door to join in the Annual Meeting festivities.  Always fun, and good food.  Some of you have been here years and decades.  I always joke with Al Mann, to ask if he can tell us what that first meeting was like, back in 1837.  But the reality, “all ministry is interim ministry.”  We all come. We stay for a while.  Perhaps some longer than others.  But then we all go.  Only Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Men and women, boys and girls over decades and generations.  Some we remember by name—a few.  Baptized here at this font; formed in faith.  A long line of folks presented to the bishops of this diocese for Confirmation.  Weddings.  Gatherings of family, friends and neighbors, for prayer and Christian burial.  Rectors and Wardens, Sunday School teachers, Choir members, Acolytes and Ushers, Missionaries and those who minister in every corner of life.  Retreats and Coffee hours.  Church picnics, workdays.  Friends in prayer.  And all along the way a richness of Christian life.  Potluck dinners, discussion groups.  Reaching out and reaching in. 

The proclamation of the gospel, in word and in action.   Witnessing the good news of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus in our homes and in our neighborhood and across the wide world.  Being formed as disciples.  Joining ourselves, in worship, to God’s holy liturgy; participating with our time, talent, and treasure as we join in his mission. 

Always here at St. Andrew’s, for 107 years now, under this great banner, of our Rood Beam, John 12: “And I if I be lifted up from the earth will draw all men unto me.”  From this corner of a quiet city neighborhood, like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples out to the farthest edge.  Nothing quiet about it, truly.  A proclamation to the ends of the earth.    “Christ for the World, we sing.  The world to Christ we bring.”  With loving zeal, with fervent prayer, with one accord, with joyful song . . . .

The old joke is that when people call to ask for directions to St. Andrew’s, the natural thing is to say “just follow the signs to the zoo.”  Something profound about that somehow.  Every breed of cat on display.  Lions, tigers, bears.  Perhaps a few odd ducks.  Not a particularly big place, nor especially wealthy in financial resources.  But as someone said once, “rich in eccentricity.”  Such an amazing assembly of thoughtful, creative, interesting people.  Energetic.  Passionate.   Incredibly generous.  

You’ll forgive me for singling out one among so many, but I can’t tell you how often I have thought to myself what a breathtaking privilege it is that God in his goodness would allow me to belong to Jinny Fiske’s church.  Again, one among so many.  Just look around.  Saints and heroes.  Who know how to ask questions.  And how to give comfort.  Laughing together, singing together, weeping together, praying together. 

It is wonderful that our Year C lectionary appoints the eleventh chapter of Acts for us this morning, as we move forward toward our meeting and as we would reflect about the character of our mission and ministry in this place and from this place.   The vision of the great Prophets of the Old Testament coming to life in the midst of Easter and Pentecost.   Isaiah 2:  And it shall come to pass in the last days, that the mountain of the LORD'S house shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills; and all nations shall flow unto it.   All nations.  Isaiah 56:  My house will be called a house of prayer for all peoples.   Daniel 7: And behold, with the clouds of heaven there came one like a son of man, and he came to the Ancient of Days and was presented before him.  And to him was given dominion and glory and kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him.  

Echoing around us then this morning the great song of Simeon, in the second chapter of St. Luke, as the infant Jesus is Presented in the Temple.  “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou has prepared in the presence of all peoples—all peoples: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to thy people Israel.”

Peter’s dream here proclaimed to the Church in Acts 11, word that God has accomplished now his great plan for the reconciliation and renewal of all creation at the Cross, and that we are ourselves through our baptism and as we place our trust in him, as we place our lives in his hands, as we fall into his embrace, participating as members of his Risen Body already in his new Kingdom.  Those who were far off are now brought near, and a New Israel is born.

A little glimpse of that here.  Just look around to see what he is doing here.  This little zoo of a parish.  Amazing, really.  A miracle.  Just look around.  And join us for the meeting.

Walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Fourth Easter, Good Shepherd

Our Seminarian, Wally LaLonde, will be preaching this morning at St. Andrew's.  I thought I would re-post a sermon I preached on this Sunday in 2009.  Since that "Good Shepherd Sunday" was here in Pittsburgh also "St. Marathon Sunday," it's possible that a few St. Andreans may have missed it first time around . . . .


Saturday, May 2, 2009, 5 p.m. Pittsburgh "Marathon Eve" Service
Sunday, May 3, 2009
IV Easter (RCL/B) John 10: 11-18

In the Great 40 Days between Easter and Ascension this Fourth Sunday of Easter takes the traditional title, and perhaps having heard the lessons this is no surprise to you--“Good Shepherd Sunday.”

This morning the 23rd Psalm, so familiar it almost seems to be imprinted in the deepest level of our subconscious, and then this reading from John 10.

As a historical note, in the first Book of Common Prayer in 1549 Good Shepherd Sunday followed the old Roman Catholic calendar and was the Sunday after Easter—the day we in our modern lectionaries now have the Upper Room and Doubting Thomas stories. In 1552 the day was "bumped forward" a week, to the Second Sunday after Easter, where it remained until it was moved forward again with the introduction of the three-year Eucharistic Lectionary in the Proposed Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church in 1976, which became our current 1979 Prayer Book, and which continues in the pattern of our new Revised Common Lectionary.

But whatever the Sunday, the imagery is intrinsic to Easter. As we say in our Creeds, “And the third day he rose again according to the Scriptures: and ascended into heaven, And sitteth on the right hand of the Father.” All one package.

The imagery explores who it is, who now rules heaven and earth; who it is, who will judge both the quick and the dead; who it is, whose kingdom shall have no end. How are we to understand our relationship to him now, and his to us? What language, what imagery, conceptual framework, what metaphor will allow us to grasp this deepest mystery of Easter. That he died, but now is risen from the dead, now with us, above us, around us, within us.

And now, whether on the second Sunday or third or fourth, the Easter brass still lingering behind us in the distant air, we hear not of a vengeful tyrant out to even the score, to give back some of what he got, nor of a far distant and remote clockmaker, who did what he needed to do and now has moved on to other things, not to be bothered anymore with us.

But instead, well: “Savior like a shepherd lead us, much we need thy tender care. In thy pleasant pastures feed us; for our use thy folds prepare. Blessed Jesus! Blessed Jesus! Thou hast bought us, thine we are.” What a gift, what a blessing of Easter. His love, his care, his tears for our sorrows, his word to heal us, his arms to embrace, to protect and keep us safe. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . .




Good Shepherd Sunday: a tenderness at the living heart of Easter. In what is so often a hard and harsh world, the blessing of his gentleness. May you and may all of us experience that, live fully with that. To say, “my cup runneth over” with the abundance of blessing and comfort, in him. O Sons and Daughters, let us sing, the King of heaven, the glorious King, from death and hell rose triumphing. Alleluia.

In the midst of this, I want to pause for just a moment of interest over a word from this second part of John, Chapter 10, one point in particular in this rich passage, when Jesus says, in the 16th verse, “I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also.”

This a very frequently discussed saying. Sometimes presented in the context of ecumenical conversations.

The New Testament scholar Raymond Brown thought that this was heard in the early community around St. John as a reference to what we might call the Petrine community—or perhaps of the churches founded by St. Paul.

In very modern times some have wondered whether the saying might not even be a clue of how to think about the pluralism of religious faiths, how the risen Jesus might be present even in places where his name is not known, working silently and secretly to share the reconciliation that comes from the Cross with the whole world.

I suppose we will never know for sure just exactly what Jesus had in mind. But what I think it does in any event, this word about “other sheep,” is that however we think it might be interpreted, it is at least, at most, reminder that while we are his, he is not ours.

To say that again: while we are his, he is not ours. Not in the sense that we own him, that we control and define the extent of his embrace. We are his, but he is not ours.

Remembering in this context the song by the Texas musical comedy group the Austin Lounge Lizards (first introduced to me by Barbara Lewis a number of years ago), in their famous song, “Jesus loves me, but he can’t stand you.”

If we know the grace and peace and healing and new life of his resurrection, what we cannot do ever is to assume that this is ours because we have earned it, because we deserve it—which is what inevitably follows from the thought that this blessing is for me, but somehow not for you.

There is eventually a kind of spiritual arrogance that can emerge from that, a sense of superiority, entitlement--a sense of pride, which is of course so powerfully unlike the one who came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for the many. Not the few, but the many.

To give his life, that the holy generosity that flows from the cross would lift us up and fill our lives. That as we are blessed, we might know that blessing not as something to cling to, but as something that falls as rain and snow fall from the heavens, his free gift.

Bruce Robison

Third Easter

Year C, John 21: 1-9
Baptism of Luke Field, Helen Hutchings,
Kingston Smith, and Issac Smith

The Third Easter Sunday now, and a word of welcome: grace and peace.  Last weekend here at St. Andrew’s we had four baptisms—three on Saturday and one at the 9 a.m. service, and now this morning four more—wow!--Luke, Helen, Kingston, Issac!  Which is so wonderful, and truly an Easter of celebration for us, as we have the opportunity to affirm again and again to renew our commitment as well to the new life of our risen Lord and Savior.  All Easter, all the time . . . .  The Head that once was crowned with thorns is crowned with glory now.  Christos anesti!  Alithos anesti.

So here:  the novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Last Tycoon said, “there are no second acts in American lives.”  By which I think he meant that our history is our destiny.  Who you were is who you are is who you will be--and no matter how hard you try, no matter how far you run, no matter how you hide, your past will always track you down.  Your history is your destiny, and there is no escape.   

Our national pastime may seem to be some kind of strange concoction of codependency and denial.   But sooner or later, the bills come due, the lights come on, the doors swing open—and what we were running from is no longer behind us, but right in front of us.  Our history is our destiny.   Every bill comes due and gets paid, one way or another.

Who gets a second chance?  A clean slate?  A fresh start?  Where could that come from?  How could it really happen?

And so, this story from the 21^st Chapter of St. John, in the heart of the Easter season and the Easter moment in our lives and in the lives of the friends of Jesus.  Some days have passed.  They've left Jerusalem and returned home to the Galilee.  All the confusing events of Holy Week and Easter morning still swirling in their minds.  A jumble of thoughts, memories, emotions.  The Last Supper, the Garden of Gethsemane, the Arrest and Trail.  Good Friday.  And then of course the visions and experiences of Easter morning, of the evening of Easter Day, of the Sunday after that, with Thomas.  The stories of other disciples, like those who met the Stranger on the Road to Emmaus.  All a jumble.

For Peter this must have all been especially hard, especially confusing.  He had been the leader, in some ways the closest to Jesus.   And in the hours before the arrest it was Peter who was the boldest, pledging that he would defend Jesus whatever the cost, seizing a sword, and even in the Garden unsheathing the sword and striking the servant of the High Priest on the head, causing him to lose an ear.

Confusing and humiliating.  Because as they all knew, and as Peter knew even more acutely than they all did, when the situation then got really dangerous, he was the one who gave into his fear.  Betraying Jesus not just once, but three times.  Three times, in the dark courtyard of the High Priest, as the rooster was crowing the dawn of that horrible Good Friday morning. 

What Peter must have been feeling and thinking of himself as they hiked the back roads home.   Humiliated.  A fool.  All talk, no action.  A big talker—but when the going got tough, he was the first to get going.  None of the others said anything.  None of them had to.  And if Judas went out and hanged himself when he realized the enormity of his crime, I wonder what Peter was thinking.  

And so this scene by the lake.  And as had happened so many times before, the disciples have gone fishing, and then as they put in, ready to give up, Jesus is there.   Peter seems almost crazy.  Grabs his clothes and then leaps into the water to swim to shore.  He can’t believe that it’s true.  Can’t believe it really is Jesus.  But he needs it to be true.  He needs it to be Jesus. 

And Jesus prepares a meal for them all, and they sit and eat in stunned silence.  Awe and wonder, fear and love. 

And then Jesus turns to Peter.  Their eyes meet.  And echoing in Peter’s mind must be the sudden horrible replay of that night.  “I do not know the man, I am not one of his disciples, I’ve never heard of him.”  That moment of his cowardice, his greatest shame.  An indelible mark on his life forever. 

And the Lord of all Tenderness then turns to him, and allows him to turn the Three Denials all around.  Rewind.  Reset.  The charcoal fire crackles in the background.  The light of the morning. Does Peter even manage to say the words?  “I’m sorry, Lord.”  Sorry I let you down.  A miserable offender.  No health in me at all.  I’m sorry.

 Peter, Peter, Peter: Do you love me?  Do you love me?  Do you love me? 

Yes, I love you; Yes, I love you; Lord, you know everything.  The depths of my heart.  You are the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end of everything.  You know.   Yes, I love you.

And then the promise.  In the victory of love.  Peter, your life from here, every day, and every hour, from this time forward, and even at the end of your life, every moment, will be from here and now, to glorify God.  Not a failure, but the greatest of great victories.  Not shame.  The humiliation, the one who betrayed, the one who denied.  But glory.  All glory.

This is what it is all about when we stand as a family and as Christian friends around the font.  What it means when we look up over our heads to see the towering Cross, to remember his words to us from John 12, “and I if I be lifted up from the earth will draw all men unto me.”

Our history isn't our destiny.  Not if we live in him.  Peter knew that, which I suppose is why he jumped into the water—what a baptism that was!!-- probably weeping with joy all the way in as he swam toward shore.  He knew Jesus well enough to know this.  That in the presence of Jesus this aching of his heart and soul, this shame and humiliation, the guilt of his sin, his betrayal—in the presence of Jesus, the mark of the Cross still scarred on the palm of his hands, and with one word, with a touch, a blessing, that would all be gone.   My Cross was for you.  My resurrection is for you.

And it turned out all to be true.  We read on into the Acts of the Apostles of a Peter who strides into the future from this morning by the lake with the radiance of a spiritual power and authority, a conviction, a sense of mission and purpose, and without even the faintest hint of that shadow.  Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven.   It was all wiped clean, all paid for.  Accomplished.  And even at his death, so the tradition goes, crucified himself on the road outside Rome, witnessing the power and the love of his Savior, filled not with shame but with glory.

In the water of baptism we died with him, and Luke and Helen and Kingston and Issac.  That we all may join with him in his resurrection, and that we all may be unified with him in this holy life of blessing and forgiveness.   That our life and our death may be all grace and all glory. 

A “second act.”  A fresh start.  To place the burden of our brokenness on his shoulders, in the embrace of his arms stretched out there, for us.  And then to rise with him, in all Easter blessing.  Christos anesti!  Alithos anesti!