Monday, April 25, 2016

Fifth Easter, and the 179th Annual Parish Meeting of St. Andrew's Church, Highland Park, Pittsburgh

Acts 11: 1-18; John 13: 31-35

Good morning again, and grace and peace to you on this Fifth Easter Sunday and as we will at the end of this service be invited to move downstairs to Barley Hall for the 179th Annual Meeting of St. Andrew’s Church.  That is a big number, for sure!   When I arrived at St. Andrew’s in the summer of 1994 there was still a good deal of conversation and recent memory of the weekend a few years before, in 1987, when St. Andrew’s had celebrated a “sesquicentennial” with all kinds of worship and music and celebration.  Still some of us here who took part in those festivities, 29 years ago.  Many told me about the long walk and procession beginning down at the corner of Ninth Street and Fort Duquesne Boulevard, all the way out here to Highland Park, retracing the footsteps of our spiritual mothers and fathers from the first home of St. Andrew’s all the way here--and reminding ourselves as we picture that parade of our deep and meaningful connection to those who have come before us in their Christian lives in this particular community of faith—and perhaps a reminder as well that we are ourselves links in a chain, connected inextricably to those who came before us, but also links for those who will come after, in days and years to come. 

There is in that an image of Christian stewardship.  What we do with our lives not just about living for the moment—whether in our families or here in the church.   Each generation and each one of us in turn with a time of care and responsibility, adding our own unique contribution and then passing the precious gift along.  Mom and dad at home look at their children and know that the decisions they make and the kind of lives they live will be dedicated in large part to what will come after.  So our identity and resources and values and good work as the people of St. Andrew’s, but of course in a deeper and more important way as stewards of the life of Christian faith.  Building for the future.  Confessing Christ as Lord with boldness and with clear voices—and not only with our lips, but also in our lives, talking the talk and walking the walk.  It’s a great story.  179 years of life at St. Andrew’s.  And two thousand years since Easter and Pentecost and the first bright light of the Good News of Christ risen from the dead, with the promise of forgiveness of our sins and true salvation and everlasting life.  A great story.

Last Sunday I paused over the reading from the Revelation to St. John where the great visionary was able to catch this glimpse into the great heaven of God, the eternal reality beyond time and space, where the multitudes live in joy and peace and love and a spirit of everlasting worship before the Throne and before the Lamb.  To say that the character of Christian life is that because we know that Christ is risen, so we know that we are risen with him.  From our perspective, at the last day, at the end, in the true future of Christ’s appearing.  But from God’s perspective, it is already and forever true, eternal, beyond time and space.  From our perspective we are here, Hampton Street, Highland Park, and fully engaged in all the joys and storms of this life, our families and friends, our work, our little victories and our challenging defeats. 

But from God’s perspective and in him the victory is already complete.  I used those two words to talk about what St. John’s Revelation has to teach us about Christian life—that it is “eschatological” and “doxological.”   That we live in the realities of this world, but always are clear about the “eschaton,” the goal, the final station.  We live confidently, and carefully, and courageously, and sacrificially, and in obedience, because we know the final word of the story has already been written, the final battle of the war has been won, and won decisively.  We are “eschatological,” and so we are “doxological.”  We hear the multitudes of the choir of heaven, and even here, even now, we join our voices.
And this is about singing, and praising God, but it isn’t just about singing. We remember the little story about Tabitha in the reading from Acts last Sunday.   Good works and acts of kindness and charity were her “devotion,” her prayer.    It’s about understanding that everything we do, everything we think, everything we desire,  everything,  is lifted up as music to the ears of the Father.  

What is it about these Christians?  In Acts 11 Peter’s dream.  In the great Holy Story that we know in Scripture God has dedicated Israel, set her apart, as a vessel for his holiness, to prepare the way, as a sign and a promise to the world and all creation.  And now in Easter and the outpouring of the Holy Spirit the Israel of God is renewed and refreshed, now no longer constrained by the old boundaries, but expanded by the power of the Holy Spirit.  The old sign gives way to the new.    “The nations will stream to your light,” as the Prophet had sung, “and Kings the brightness of your dawning.”  If Israel was set apart as one kind of a sign of God’s promised action, now the Church is lifted up in its eschatological and doxological character as a proof and demonstration that God’s promise has been fulfilled.   It’s a little intimidating, but if we realize that we are works in process it can be encouraging and inspiring.  To imagine for a moment that God has said to you, to me, to each one of us as individuals, and the Church, the wide church, and to this church of St. Andrew’s Highland Park, “I am giving you as a sign to the nations.  As I am holy, you will be holy.  As I am generous, you will be generous.  As I am forgiving, you will be forgiving.  People will see you, and the more they see of you, the better they know you, the more they will want to know me. 

I give you a new commandment, Jesus tells his disciples.  Just as I have loved you, you also, love one another.

It’s kind of a crazy place, this St. Andrew’s.  Has been for a long time, maybe 179 years.  An odd bunch, called here by God—and sometimes for reasons that God only knows, and that we have a hard time figuring out.  But the one thing that we can say for sure is that God knows what he is doing, even when we have a hard time seeing the bigger picture for ourselves--and that he is building something beautiful and perfect and holy with his church and in his church.  With each one of us.   Not that any of us are finished yet, and not that this St. Andrew’s Church is a finished work.  Lots of rough edges and false starts.  Lots of room left for improvement.  But the Holy Spirit moving along, in us and among us.  And with that every once in a while what I find myself doing is just stepping back for a moment and taking a breath and to say, it really is a gift and a blessing and a privilege to be here.  I hope you share that as well.

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

                                                                                                                                                Bruce M. Robison

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Fourth Easter, Good Shepherd

  Acts 9: 36-40; Rev. 7: 9-17

The “so what?” question about Easter moves us this week first to the great vision of St. John the Seer, the multitudes of the heavenly choir gathered around the Throne and around the Lamb, singing praises, and the reminder that Christian Life in Easter is eschatological and doxological.  (Eschatological—having to do with the Eschaton, the finish line, the goal.  And to say that we are an “eschatological” people is to say that while we are still in one frame of reference running the race, in the Truth of God in Easter we are already across the finish line.  And  doxological, that the victorious life is one full of praise and thanksgiving.  We appear to be here, citizens of this world, this reality, but John sees the truth. We are already there, already in worship and endless song.)

And so our series through Easter: Christian life, discipleship, stewardship.   The modern calendar moves the observance of  “Good Shepherd Sunday” from the Third Easter Sunday to the Fourth, and it occurred to me with our reading from John 10 this morning that for many on our first visit to this beautiful old church the very first image that we might have noticed, and so something of the way that we of St. Andrew’s introduce ourselves to those who first come through those Hampton Street doors, is that of the Good Shepherd of the Sheep, the lovely stained-glass window in our Narthex.  “My sheep hear my voice.  I know them, and they follow me.” 

To remind ourselves of the story of the window:  the young rector Harry Briggs Heald, who passed from this life to the next suddenly and unexpectedly in 1924, at the age of 45, after just three years of ministry at St. Andrew’s-- known for his care and love especially for the families and children of the congregation, a good pastor.  And following his death and as a tribute to his ministry the children and families of the Sunday School sponsored that window through their special offerings.  Jesus, the Good Shepherd.  A tender thought for us, perhaps as we see that image and look beyond it, to see and remember and to refresh in our thoughts and our hearts every day, the love of Jesus.  

My sermon theme, in some sort of a series, through these weeks of Easter, as I’ve said that I want to bring us in various ways to reflect on what we really are talking about when we talk about when we talk about being “disciples” of Jesus, or when we describe what we mean when we use the sometimes scary term, “Christian stewardship,” has been centered on that  affirmation in the Apostles’ Creed, “I believe in the resurrection of the body.”  About the Easter reality of Jesus, who died for us on the cross, who rose from the dead, who revealed himself to his chosen witnesses, who reveals himself to us even today, who lives and reigns for ever and ever.  Easter on the one hand, and on the other hand, us.  And to ask about what difference it makes.  Because you would think it would make a difference.

You would think so, for people who believe that Jesus really rose from the dead, for people saw him for themselves directly, as we are reading in the Bible stories in this season,  or for people who have been prepared by the goodness of God and the grace of the Holy Spirit to believe the testimony of those witnesses, who saw as we say with the eyes of faith.  In Word and Sacrament and in the quiet of our prayer.  People who believe, who know, that Jesus is alive.  People who believe and know that he will in fact come again to set things in perfect order.  That he has better things in mind for us than we can ask for or imagine.  You would think that it would make a pretty noticeable difference.  That for people who believe that Jesus is alive, life would be approached in a different way than would be the case for people who didn’t believe that.  That doesn’t mean that everything would look different.  Believers and non-believers would most of the time live in the same neighborhoods and work in the same jobs and so on.  We all put our pants on one leg at a time.  But it would be hard to imagine that at least some things wouldn’t be different—and probably some important things.  People will say that there is something essentially counter-cultural about Christian faith and life, though how that works exactly isn’t always that easy to see.  Culture and faith wind around each other in complicated ways for each of us.

The story in Acts 9 this morning of Tabitha or Dorcas (her Hebrew name and her Greek name)  is a glimpse into the first moments of the new reality of Easter.  She is a woman of Christian faith, a disciple, perhaps even one of the many women who followed along with Jesus and the Twelve during the years of Christ’s earthly ministry.   Joppa or “Jaffa” an ancient port city, modern Tell Aviv, and in a region through which Jesus must have travelled many times.  And she’s a believer.  Tabitha believes in the resurrection of the body.  She is a “disciple,” one who has seen the Lord Jesus risen from the dead either with her own eyes or with the eyes of faith.  And as a result, as Luke tells us here at the beginning of the reading this morning, “she was devoted to good works and acts of charity.”

Because that’s what happens.  Some simple clues about what “discipleship” and “stewardship” begin to look like, at least in very general terms.  Tabitha’s “good works and acts of charity,” and I think the verb here is important.  “She was devoted” to this work,  this way of life. That’s of course a word we use about prayer, and worship.  As we talk about our devotional life.  She’s not just busy.  She’s not just someone who likes to be involved in committee-work or community service.  This is her devotional activity, her prayer and worship, the spiritual expression of her heart.  What we talk about when we pray “no only with our lips but in our lives.”   As the Cross of Good Friday is interpreted though the Empty Tomb, as the suffering and death of the Lord Jesus is offered for the forgiveness of sins and the healing of the mind and heart and spirit and for the love of the whole world.  As the eyes of the believer are lifted to the horizon no longer in despair and hopelessness but in eager anticipation, the heart overflows with love and prayer and thanksgiving, with a generosity that is not simply practical and affectionate, but that is now deeply rooted in the Holy Spirit.  Tabitha’s life, and memories of Maundy Thursday, of Jesus kneeling before his friends and washing their feet.  Perhaps Tabitha was one of the women in the background of that scene and heard him speak his last command now not a hard rule to follow and obey but as a song to sing in their hearts.  “Love one another, as I have loved you.”

And then we move on in the reading to see the power of Peter’s remarkable prayer.  If you’ve seen Jesus, if you’ve been a witness of Easter, if you know deep down and through and through that he is in charge, at the Right Hand of the Father, ruling heaven and earth, coming again—well, then: why be tentative?  Peter doesn’t pray and then cross his fingers.  It’s all one.   “Tabitha, get up!”  Wow.  And the power that Jesus demonstrated, that Peter had seen first hand and that Tabitha had seen and known personally and that we have seen flow from Jesus in the gospel-- in the raising of Lazarus and in the healing of the daughter of the Widow and the servant of the Roman soldier, that power now in the life of Christ’s Body the Church.  “Tabitha.  Get up.”  And Tabitha is revived, renewed, refreshed, healed.  Reborn!  Unexpected, perhaps, and yet entirely expected.   Since Easter, everything is different.   And it all keeps moving forward.  It keeps happening.  Tabitha herself now even more a kind of evangelist not simply by her words and deeds but simply that she is alive.  Many see her, or even just hear about her, and then themselves come to  believe in the Lord.   A reminder that from now on, Christian people, witnesses of the Risen Lord, things are going to be way different from the way they were before.  “Death is conquered, we are free; Christ has won the victory.”

And so again we would move from Acts chapter 9 to Acts chapter 29.  To the part that moves on from Peter and Tabitha and Paul and Barnabas and Luke and begins to tell our story.  Our story.  Christians in Acts 29 are different and counter-cultural  because they believe and act with confidence in the reality that Jesus is alive and already in charge.  That’s how we carry the story forward.  That the strife is o’er, the victory is won.  What this word “stewardship” that I keep circling around is all about.  If we don’t keep coming back to this we’ll never get there.  That the one who was the ruler of this world, the one who came to his power through sin and who ruled this broken world in darkness, by an ethic of fear, whose hallmarks were selfishness and greed and lust and violence and sickness and death—he has suffered his last and decisive defeat; his day is over; his forces are in retreat.   Right now—right now, in our midst, even here in Pittsburgh, in Highland Park, in our neighborhoods and our families, in our community and our church, Jesus is clearing the field of the enemy, building his church—his church.  And the thing about Christians like Tabitha and Peter in Chapter 9 and all the characters of Chapter 29 is that they are joining in that triumphant Easter procession,  not timidly or tentatively, but confidently--living already in that new reality.  The Easter light is dawn at the horizon, but for the witnesses, for those who believe in the resurrection of the body,  it is already high noon, full day.  Tabitha was “devoted—devoted  to good works and charity,” because that is how the New Jerusalem of God is.  That is how we live now.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Third Easter

Acts 9: 1-20

The Third Easter Sunday, and the very last verse of the Gospel  of John,   which comes just a paragraph or so after the conclusion of this morning’s reading, hovers over all our Easter Season Sundays.  “There were also many other things which Jesus did,” John says.  Chapter 21, verse25: “There were also many other things which Jesus did; were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.”  Over these weeks we’ve had a good sample of the recorded stories.  Mary in the Garden, the two walking home to Emmaus on Sunday afternoon, the disciples in the Upper Room both Easter evening and the next week, with Thomas—and today here the story of the breakfast on the beach at the Sea of Galilee.   A representative selection. 

At the end of First Corinthians 15, probably written at least a few decades before St. John’s Gospel, St. Paul gives a list of Easter stories as well, beginning at verse 5: “he appeared to Cephas,” to Peter, “then to the twelve.  Then he appeared to more than five hundred brethren at one time, most of whom,” Paul says here, “most of whom are still alive, though some have fallen asleep.  Then he appeared to James . . . .”  He misses a few that we read about in the gospels but also adds a couple that aren’t recorded anywhere else.   The point is that something was happening in these days after Easter not just to a few, but to many.  They would see him with their own eyes, and perhaps like Mary hear him say their name in the old familiar way, or like Thomas they would touch his scarred hands and wounded side.  Then continuing in First Corinthians 15 St. Paul says, “Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me.”  Of course, by “last of all” Paul is referring to his place among the first group of disciples and apostles, the first witnesses.  From our point of view two thousand years later Paul doesn’t appear to be last, but among the first.  A matter of perspective.   Over the centuries a vast chorus begins to sing the song: Christos anesti;  alithos anesti.  Christ is risen; he is risen indeed.  Or as we recite together in the most ancient creed of the Church, “I believe in the resurrection of the body.”  We’ve seen it with our own eyes, we’ve seen him,  in the gracious working of the Holy Spirit.

 I’ve shared a number of times a small but actually for me pretty significant turning-point moment in my own Christian life when I was rummaging around the library of St. Mark’s  in Berkeley back in the early 1970’s and came across a newsletter with the title “Acts 29.”  I went home later that evening and with some curiosity picked up my Bible and turned to Acts 29, only to find that the book of Acts ends at chapter 28.  And then a lightbulb went on.  “Oh, Acts 29.  That’s what comes next.  Across all the centuries and around the world, and all the way here, to this time, this place.  The part of the story where you and I somehow show up as the central characters . . . .”  Certainly a theme and implication in our readings through this season and in the proclamation of the Church is to say that in the witness of Easter and in the Pentecost power of the Holy Spirit the risen Lord continues to reveal himself –continues to turn our lives around, continues to build his Church, a great cloud of witnesses . . . .

We hear Paul’s story in some detail.  St. Luke, who was the author of Acts, was a companion of Paul on his missionary journeys and must have heard the story dozens and maybe hundreds of times.    Paul himself alludes to the story several times in his letters.  This is partly of historical and biographical interest, but the point of telling and re-telling it is certainly for Paul what we might call an Acts 29 point.  Paul was chosen by Jesus, called, thrown off his horse, turned around, sent forth.  His story, and then our story.  The details may vary, but the center is the same.  Mary in the Garden, friends on the Road to Emmaus, the gatherings in the Upper Room, the meeting on the beach.  The risen Lord reveals himself to those whom he has chosen, he knocks us off whatever horse we happen to be riding, he turns our lives around, and then he commissions us and send us on the way to build his Church.    Again, the details will vary.  Paul’s story isn’t mine, and my story isn’t yours.  But Jesus – is always Jesus.

 In the first chapter of his Letter to the Galatians Paul reminds his readers that he had been once upon a time a persecutor of the followers of Jesus and a leader of the most zealous faction of the Jewish community.  If you have ever felt that you are an unlikely candidate for God’s purposes, he’s saying, just get in line.  And we notice in the reading this morning how he says in chapter 9, verse 15, “But . . . he who had set me apart before I was born, and had called me through his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son to me, in order that I might preach him among the gentiles . . . .”    It may not really make sense to us in any particular moment, but Jesus knows what he’s doing,  Paul says.  He chooses the people he chooses not in some haphazard way, but with a clarity of purpose.  Even if that purpose may seem sometimes obscure to us.  We understand why Ananias is reluctant to shelter this man who so recently had been a dangerous adversary.   But Jesus speaks to Ananias in a vision, to say about Paul, “go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen . . . .”

So Easter.  As I’ve said over the past couple of weeks, a remarkable story.  A man dies, and then he is alive again.  But the critical question remains, so what?  So what?  What does all that have to do with us?   The question of the season.  Again, the substance of Acts 29, as it is written about your life and my life.  About the Church of Jerusalem and Damascus and Antioch and Corinth and Rome, and Highland Park.  The odd assembly of men and women and boys and girls who happen to walk through these doors on Hampton Street . . . .  What it has to do with us.  The rest of the story.

And so stewardship (perhaps wondered if I was going to get back around to that wondered today—in continuing my promised series through Eastertide).  The expression as we live our lives day by day as disciples and apostles.  Talking the talk; walking the walk.  I’m going to spend some time in the next couple of weeks looking at Scripture and at parts of the tradition of our life in the Church at what we might call the particulars of what that might mean.   The stewardship of my body, of my relationships, of my things, of my gifts and abilities, of my thoughts and feelings—all of that,  unfolding within the frame of Easter.   Since our lives of stewardship, our lives as disciples and apostles, the friends and followers of Jesus, will always be in that Easter light:  in Word and Sacrament, in prayer and service, in the face of our neighbor, in ecstatic vision, in the secret of our hearts, that by the power of the Holy Spirit in a season that is always Easter he reveals himself to us, risen from the dead, ruling at the right hand of the Father, promising to come in consummation to be judge of all.  Revealing himself to us.  Calling us.  Knocking us off the horses we were riding before, turning us around, commissioning us and equipping us to continue his work, to build up his Church. 

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

Monday, April 4, 2016

Second Easter

Acts 5: 27-32, John 20: 19-31

Good morning!  The Second Easter Sunday, and so again to renew and refresh the great proclamation: the work of the Cross and the sign of the Empty Tomb, Jesus risen and exalted high over us all as Lord and Savior.  Sins forgiven, the Enemy defeated, the power of death overthrown. We may not have the brass ensemble or the overflowing crowds this morning, but through all the rising and falling of the tides, it remains for us always Easter.  Let’s see how well we remember last week’s Greek lesson: Christos anesti!  Alithos anesti!

Where I started last Sunday:  “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”  The third paragraph of the Apostles’ Creed, which is probably the oldest and most universally accepted summary of Christian faith and life.   This ancient sentence my framework for an Easter sermon to highlight the Easter Sunday reading from the 10th chapter of Acts--as Peter is announcing the Gospel to the Gentile household of Cornelius the Centurion. “I believe in the resurrection of the body.”  Because I want to touch base there again briefly before moving forward this morning I asked Michelle to include that passage from Acts on page 20 of this morning’s service leaflet.   

“I believe in the resurrection of the body.”  Cornelius a Roman soldier, an officer stationed in Jerusalem, who has been drawn by the Holy Spirit to learn about the customs and beliefs of the people whose land he and his army are occupying.  Cornelius has already begun a kind of conversion.  An interested student of Holy Scripture, he is a “proselyte.”  Which means that he hasn’t gone through the formal rituals of conversion—which probably would have been impossible, maybe illegal, for a Roman soldier—but that he attends synagogue services, perhaps joining in prayer in the Court of the Gentiles at the Temple.  So a man of growing faith.  And he has heard about Jesus.  There is even a tradition that Cornelius may have been the unnamed Centurion who on Good Friday oversaw the crucifixion of Jesus, and who is recorded as saying in Mark 15, as Jesus dies, “Surely this man was the Son of God.”  If that were true it would explain his eagerness to talk with the disciples.  In any event, proselyte and inquirer Cornelius has called for Peter in the days after Pentecost to come and speak to him and his family and friends.

That’s the background.  Peter presents to Cornelius and his assembled household what I called the “executive summary” of the gospel—a little bit more than half way through the passage printed on page 20.  “They put Jesus to death by hanging him on a tree, but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead.  He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead.  All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.”  This is the message that will inspire and direct the life of the Christian community from now on.  In the pages of Acts, in those first days after Pentecost, and then for two thousand years, and all the way to the Second Easter Sunday of 2016.  Christ is risen.  Alithos anesti—he is risen indeed.  I believe in the resurrection of the body . . . .

Earlier this year I told our vestry I was thinking about reflecting on these Easter season readings from Acts to talk about Christian life, with a focus on the theme of “stewardship.”  (But don’t get nervous!)  This is a word that has become somewhat distorted in our minds often I think because it is so generally used in the church in fundraising campaigns and in efforts to recruit volunteers for committees.   Those aren’t bad things of course—they’re necessary for mission and ministry, and they are certainly rooted “in” Christian stewardship in a broad sense.  But stewardship--at least as I want to think about it over the next few weeks--is prior to those kinds of things.  I promise: no pledge cards or sign-up sheets . . . .  What I’m hoping to do is to explore some background and foundations, where this idea of “stewardship” comes from.  And I’m going to begin simply by saying that “stewardship” begins with Easter.

As I said last week, the resurrection of Jesus, if it only has to do with Jesus, is very interesting.  But that’s about it. A nice story.  Lucky for Jesus that of all the people who have ever died, he didn’t stay dead.  The question continues to be, what difference does it make?  His resurrection.  We understand why this is news.  “Dead man comes back to life.”  It’s a startling claim.  But what we want to be clear about is why it should also be considered good news.  Why it should matter to us other than as a curiosity.   And what I’m going to explore over these weeks in the context of the appointed series of readings from the Bood of Acts is the thought that the word “stewardship” is where we need to go when we begin to deal as Christians with the Easter Sunday question, “so what?”  When we begin to sort out the thought that the affirmation in the Creed,   I believe in the resurrection of the body is about Jesus and about us.  About our bodies too--and so about how we live, what we live for, our priorities, our goals, our values.

In Acts 10 Peter told Cornelius a few specific things about Easter and the resurrection of Jesus that would frame the conversation.  Looking at that passage on page 20 again.  He tells him that everybody didn’t automatically see the risen Jesus, but only those “chosen by God as witnesses.”  If we see Jesus, if we know him to be risen from the dead, or even if we simply have a desire in our hearts for him.  If we’re looking for him, as Cornelius is.  If we want to see.  It is God who has already been working in us to make that happen. God who chosen that for us, God who opens our eyes and prepares our minds and hearts to want him, to seek after him and to find him.  Then Peter says that the risen Christ has commanded his chosen witnesses to tell the story, and to proclaim in particular that Jesus can be seen and known in the Scriptures, in the words of “all the Prophets,”  and that Jesus and Jesus alone “is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead.”   Which tells us that there is something that we are accountable for, and someone we will be accountable to, all because of Easter.

Because of Easter, Peter says, we who see the risen Christ in the words of Scripture and the eyes of faith now have a new job description, a new career, a new calling, a new purpose for our lives, even comprehensively a new identity—and there is now for us a new “boss” to report to.  A new leader, guide, and judge.  Seated at the right hand of the Father.   And this is where we begin when we would use the term, “Christian stewardship.” The words don’t have any real meaning without that foundation.  “I believe in the resurrection of the body.” 

So we go finally to this morning’s reading from Acts 5 (back on page 8).   Peter and the other disciples in their defense before the Temple authorities after they have caused a huge commotion: crowds have begun to seek them out for prayer and healing, and they have been preaching and teaching even in the precincts of the Temple itself.  Very dramatically, they are arrested by the Temple guards and incarcerated, but in the middle of the night, miraculously, they are freed from prison and go right back to the activities that got them in trouble in the first place.  Finally the authorities gather them up and bring them to a kind of hearing—to figure out from the authorities’ point of view how to put a lid on what is becoming a real problem.   The high priest reminds Peter that he has already been ordered to stop this public activity, but Peter says that in this case he is now answering to a higher authority.  He is going to be obedient, indeed, but in a new context that goes beyond his relationship to the civil and religious authorities.   Drives the point home.  Because of Easter.    I believe in the resurrection of the body. And therefore, Peter and his companions declare, verse 29, again on page 8--we now have no choice: “we must obey God rather than any human authority.”   

The old obedience to human authorities is now subject to a new reality.  God is real, God has won the victory, and so now we have no choice really but to think and act in a new way.  God is in charge.  Absolutely.  God’s triumph in the Good Friday battle is now the compelling truth and reality of the universe.  “We must obey God rather than any human authority.”  We must.   No wiggle room.  “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus . . .” the one all the holy history of God’s people has pointed to.  A story that now includes us.  God “exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior.”  For us.  Not simply to save us, but to lead us and to change us--and then to save us.  Led by the Holy Spirit—the gift, Peter says, that “God has given to those who obey him.”  Again, that’s stewardship.  Living the new reality of Easter. 

I will invite you to think through this with me over the next few weeks—what to make of this “new obedience.”  It feels  challenging—even confusing.  We read the Bible, but we don’t hear a voice giving us clear and straightforward directions.  We don’t live in heaven with the angels.  We get up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to work or school.  We have particular bodies, relationships, families.  Romance and heartbreak and chronic illness.   We jog or go to the gym or we lie on the sofa and watch soap operas.   We eat too much or drink too much.  We have anger management problems.  We get jealous.  We find ourselves longing for things we know deep down aren’t good for us.  We make promises and we break promises.  We go to church.  Help with good projects.  We do our best.  We’re busy, distracted: things to do, books to read, television shows and movies to watch.  We have careers we love and jobs we hate.  Then there’s retirement planning.  Bank accounts and investments, mortgages and student loans and credit cards.  Doctor visits.  Operations.  Birthdays and funerals.  Joys and sorrows.  Political opinions, passions, prejudices.   Things that keep us awake at night. 

That’s all of us.  An over it all: Easter, and a new obedience.  We know it’s there, and we search the Word and we search our hearts to figure out where it leads us.  That we meet a deep reality, that in all this, in all this, we’re working for somebody else now.    Accountability.  Stewardship.  Thinking about these things, about what’s different.  About what we’re really saying when we say, “I believe in the resurrection of the body.”