John 20:19-23
Post Easter Let-Down
James Sledge May 1, 2011
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but all four of the gospels in our Bible are really short. The Gospel of John that we just heard from is only about 30 pages long. And that means that there is a great deal about Jesus and his followers that we just don’t know. For example, what happened to Jesus’ father, Joseph. Other than his brief appearance at the beginning of Luke and Matthew, he is never seen again. Lots of scholars presume that he must have died before Jesus began his ministry, but there is no way to be certain.
I wish there was a bit more detail provided in our gospel reading for today. We’re told that it is Sunday evening, late in the same day when Peter and the beloved disciple had seen the empty tomb, and Mary Magdalene had met the risen Jesus. She had gone to the disciples and told them what had happened, but we hear nothing about how they reacted, whether or not they believed her. John tells us nothing more until the verses we just heard. And when the story resumes, we still learn nothing about what the disciples had done all day.
Do you think all the disciple all went to the tomb during the day? Did they hang out there hoping Jesus would appear to them as well? And when Jesus didn’t show did they conclude that Mary’s imagination had gotten the better of her in a darkened graveyard? Did they decide that the empty tomb was one last insult, with Jesus denied a final resting place, his grave desecrated? I don’t know.
But when darkness descends, the disciples gather behind locked doors, hiding from the same religious authorities who had come after Jesus.
No doubt they had talked about the outlandish possibility that Jesus was alive, but there wasn’t a lot to say.
Either he was or he wasn’t, and they really didn’t know what it meant either way.
And so I suspect that they were doing what most people do when all their plans for the future have collapsed around them; they look back; they reminisce. Think of the kind of conversations that took place after they had finished with, “Do you think he’s alive?” “I don’t know. What do you think?” Once that had been around the room a few times surely the conversation began to shift toward, “Hey, remember that time Jesus changed water into wine? Man, that was something. People said it was the best wine they had ever tasted.”
“Yeah, and what about that time when he fed all those thousands of people with that one little boy’s lunch basket? That was wild. I thought the crowd was going to rush us and try to make Jesus king right then and there.”
Like members of the high school football team at a class reunion, the disciples would recall the excitement and the triumphs of those times they had spent with Jesus, the good ole days. And there were probably a lot of sighs as they looked back on those heady days, wondering if they would experience anything remotely like that ever again.
If you’ve ever been to a funeral home visitation, you’ve likely engaged in something similar. You’ve reminisced with others about those times when… People have smiled and laughed and remembered and sighed, knowing that it’s all in the past.
I’ve also heard something a bit similar in some church congregations. “Remember when the confirmation class had 50 youth in it? Things were really bustling back then. Remember when the nursery was overflowing with babies, and we would sometimes baptize five or six on a single Sunday?” Such conversations sound a lot like the ones I imagine the disciples having behind locked doors. Not that we have to hide behind locked doors, but we do often hide away in our sanctuaries. We do our own thing, hidden away from a world that scarcely notices us. And we remember those good ole days when we were big time, when mayors and governors and presidents wanted to be seen with us, when they sought advice from pastors and theologians.
But sometimes as we reminisce, as we get all nostalgic about the good ole days, Jesus shows up just like he did on that first Easter. And if we become aware of his presence, we may squirm just a bit wondering what he must think of us, huddled in our sanctuaries, dutifully going to church, safely hidden away from the world.
You’d think Jesus might be ticked, but instead he says, “Peace, Shalom; God’s grace be with you. Peace, Shalom; wholeness and life to you.” He reminds us of our calling, and then he breathes on us. If that sounds a bit odd, it is an echo from the creation story in Genesis. God formed a man from the dust and then breathed the breath of life into him. And in the biblical languages breath and spirit and wind are all related words. Sometimes it’s not clear when the Bible is talking about wind from God and when it’s the Spirit of God. And when Jesus comes into our midst he breathes the breath of life, the Spirit comes, the wind blows and moves everything around.
Church sanctuaries are sometimes rather stuffy places, even musty places that don’t feel or smell very alive. But then Jesus breathes, the wind blows, the Spirit moves.
Barbara Brown Taylor tells of a time when she, an Episcopal priest with a Sunday off, decided to get far away from her Anglican roots. She happened to be in Memphis and so she chose to attend Al Green’s Full Gospel Tabernacle, where the service begins at 11:00 and ends in the neighborhood of 2:00. There was a huge choir, a full band, and a sound system cranked way up. The service began slowly, but then it grew, finally reaching full tilt.
Then they sang and danced and raised hands in the air for the next three hours. Children stood in the pews and stomped their feet. People started to get caught up, to be “slain in the spirit,” as the saying goes. One woman jumped up and ran around the sanctuary two times. Another woman danced so vigorously that she fell to the floor where she continued to thrash about. The ushers covered her with a sheet so her slip wouldn’t show.
Taylor says she felt like she was caught in a thunderstorm. She made herself small and held perfectly still. Lightening didn’t strike her which took as her prayers being answered. But she says that later she began to wonder about her reaction. Was she just uncomfortable with that worship style, or was she unnerved at the thought of the Spirit coming over her?
When Jesus shows up that first Easter evening, I’m sure that the disciples were overjoyed to see him, to know that he really was alive. But I wonder if they were less thrilled about the Holy Spirit. The Spirit certainly wasn’t going to let them keep the doors locked. The Spirit was going to turn their lives upside down.
Back when I served as the chair of our regional governing body’s Committee on Ministry, one of my jobs was to approve the elaborate forms congregations must fill out describing themselves as part of our denomination’s system of searching for a pastor. I read a lot of these forms, and I came to realize that most said something very similar. In so many words nearly all of them said, “We’re warm and friendly, and we want to grow.” Even congregations with 15 members and on life support said this; and their dwindling group sat behind closed doors, doing church, and wondering where the people were.
By contrast, there is much life and vitality here, but I still hear the occasional, “Remember when…” I still hear the occasional voice that suggests we turn inward, do what we do, maintain, hold the fort. But then Jesus shows up. He blesses us. He sends us. He breathes life into us. The Spirit moves, the wind blows, stirs things up and scatters them all around. And the living body of Christ moves on the face of the earth.
