Tag: easter

We Had Hoped

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn EasterLeave a comment

Luke 24:13-35

There is a particular kind of sentence that only comes from heartbreak. We find it in verse 21 of our gospel lesson, and it starts like this: “We had hoped…”

It’s the kind of sentence you hear when dreams collapse under the weight of reality. It’s whispered in hospital rooms, at funeral homes, often in conversations that trail off into silence. It’s the language of people who believed something good was possible, but then watched it all fall apart.

“We had hoped…” Things would be different. The diagnosis and the prognosis, the outcome and outlook for the future was better.

Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem, walking away from the place where everything unraveled, walking away from the cross, from the chaos, from the confusion.

And as they walk away from it all, they talk: about what happened; about what went wrong; about how it all fell apart; about how mercy was beaten down, and love was crucified.

“We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” We had hoped to be liberated from King Herod and from the systems that bless the elites while the poor suffer.

“We had hoped…” Past tense. Because hope had been buried.

And if we’re honest, that sentence doesn’t belong only to them. It belongs to us too.

For we know what it is to say, “We had hoped…”

We had hoped things would not be this bad.

We had hoped we would not go to war.

We had hoped that truth would matter.

We had hoped that the teachings of Jesus to love one another, to bless the poor, to defend the marginalized, to welcome the stranger, would have been followed by more people.

We had hoped that our friends were not betrayers.

We had hoped justice would come a little quicker and peace a little closer.

We had hoped that what we believed about love—that it is stronger than hate, deeper than fear, and more powerful than violence—would be easier to see in our world. And we had hoped that selfishness, greed, hatred, and just pure meanness, would not be so prevalent…and so powerful.

But here we are, walking our own roads to Emmaus, grieving that every time we look at the news, we read something crazy: something mean; something evil. We are also carrying grief we can’t always name, questions for which we don’t have answers, and anxiety that keeps us awake at night.

And like those disciples, we don’t always realize who is walking beside us, who has been walking with us all along.

The good news of our gospel lesson is that somewhere between Jerusalem and Emmaus, Jesus is present. Not in spectacle. Not in certainty. Not in the kind of power the world recognizes. But in quiet companionship.

He draws near to them. So near, they can reach out and touch him. And the strange thing is—they don’t recognize him. Which might be the most honest part of the whole story.

Some people tell me that they have trouble believing in this mystery we call resurrection. They read about it in the gospels, but they have trouble trusting it in the real world.

I believe that is because resurrection rarely looks like what we expect. It doesn’t always arrive in a blinding light or with a clap of thunder. Sometimes, it comes disguised as a conversation; It shows up as empathy, as a presence that won’t let us go, as a voice meeting us where we are, asking questions:

“What are you discussing as you walk along?”

Jesus is not interrupting their grief, as much as he’s joining it. He lets them tell the story. He listens to their disappointment. He holds space for their “we had hoped…” And then, and only then, he begins to reframe it.

Not by denying their pain or rushing them past it. But by reminding them that the story isn’t over yet.

He opens the scriptures. He re-tells the story they thought they knew.

He shows them that what looked like an ending…was never meant to be the end.

And still, they don’t recognize him. Not yet.

Because sometimes our hearts need to change before our eyes can see it. They ask: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

That’s resurrection, too. Resurrection is not just empty tombs. It’s burning hearts. It’s not just life after death. It’s hope rekindled in the middle of a dark journey. It’s the realization sung by Raye in the Click Clack Symphony with Hans Zimmer that although we’ve “slipped back into a darkness we had hoped by now to overcome…the cold never lasts. It just teaches the heart how to burn.”

Finally, the disciples reach Emmaus, the place they thought they were going to stay, the place they had finally arrived to get away from it all.

But something has now shifted. “Stay with us,” they say. Because when resurrection gets close, even if you don’t fully understand it, you don’t want it to leave.

So, he stays. They sit at the table. He takes bread. He blesses it, breaks it, gives it. And suddenly, their eyes are opened, and they finally recognize him.

Not on the road. Not in the explanation. Not even in the opening of the scriptures. But in the breaking of bread. In a most ordinary act, made holy. In a moment so simple it could have been overlooked. Resurrection was experienced in fellowship, in community, around a table in an empathetic moment of grace and love.

And look at verse 31 again. Just as quickly as they recognize him, he vanishes. It all happens in one verse.

Which might seem cruel, until we realize: The Risen Christ doesn’t vanish as soon as he is recognized because he is no longer in the world. He vanishes because he is no longer limited to one place, to one moment, to one form. Now, the disciples will see him everywhere! In every broken piece of bread given. In every act of grace. In every moment where love refuses to stay buried and is shared freely.

And here’s the real miracle: They turn around. These same disciples who were walking away from it all, who were done, who were finished, who were at closing time—they get up that very hour and go right back to all. Back to Jerusalem. Back to the place of disappointment. Back to the place of pain. Back to the place where hope seemed to die.

But they go back differently. Not because everything has suddenly been fixed. Not because Herod is no longer on the throne. Not because the world has stopped being that crazy. They go back differently because resurrection has found them on a dark road. And once resurrection finds you, you can’t keep walking in the same direction.

That’s the hope of Easter.

Not that the world has suddenly become easier. Not that suffering has disappeared, or injustice has ceased. Not that every “we had hoped” is instantly resolved.

But that Christ is still walking with us, even when we don’t recognize him. That the story is still being told, even when it feels like it has ended. That hearts can still burn, even when hope feels cold. And that around a table, in the breaking of bread, in the sharing of life together, in the stubborn persistence of love, eyes can still be opened.

So, if you find yourself today on the road to Emmaus, if you are carrying disappointment, or confusion, or quiet grief…if your faith feels more like past tense than present reality…listen closely. Look around this room. Feel the love around you, the empathy that surrounds you.

There is a presence walking beside you this morning. Asking questions. Telling stories. Refusing to let the darkness have the last word. And maybe, just maybe, before this day is over, at some table, in some ordinary moment, your eyes will be opened too. And you will discover what the disciples did:

That resurrection meets us on the road. It sits with us in the tension. It breaks bread in the middle of our unfinished stories. And then it sends us back—

Not as people who have all the answers, but as people whose hearts are burning, carrying a hope that refuses to stay in the past tense. Because in Christ, “We had hoped” becomes “We have seen.” And that is enough to turn us around.

Not because we are strong enough, but because resurrection is. Easter is God’s declaration that even when empire does its worst, even when violence seems to have the final say, even when hope is sealed in a tomb, that is not the end of the story.

And if that is true, then we are not called to survive this moment quietly. We are called to face it. To resist it. To fight it.

But not with the weapons of the world. Not with hatred. Not with fear. Not with the same kind of power that crucified Jesus. We fight it the way the risen Christ teaches us: with truth that refuses to bend; with love that refuses to give up; with courage that refuses to be silent; with a community that refuses to let anyone walk the road alone.

We fight it every time we tell the truth when people prefer to hear the lie, every time we choose generosity in a culture of greed, every time we protect the vulnerable in a world that exploits them, every time we refuse to let religion be used as a tool of exclusion instead of liberation.

That’s what it means to be Easter people. Not people who escape the world, but people who are sent back into it.

Back to Jerusalem. Back to the places where things are broken. Back to the systems that need disrupting. Back to the communities that need healing. Back into a country that needs redeeming.

Because resurrection doesn’t remove us from the struggle. It prepares us for it. It steadies our hearts. It sharpens our vision. It reminds us who we are: we are people who have seen something.

Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not with absolute certainty.

But enough to know this: Love is still alive! Truth is still worth telling! Justice is still worth pursuing. And no empire, no ideology, no distortion of faith gets the final word.

War rages, but this is not the end of peace. This is where peacemakers rise.

Religious nationalism is in power. But this is not the end of democracy. This is where courage finds its voice.

Hate is loud. But it is not the end of love. This is where love becomes unrelenting.

The road to justice is long, and it is not easy, but Easter means we do not walk this road alone. It means our hearts can still burn. It means our eyes can still be opened. It means we can still turn around.

And it means that even now, in a world that feels like it is unraveling, God is still at work, Christ is still present, and resurrection is still breaking in.

So go back. Back to the places that need hope the most.

Go back. Not as people who are afraid of this moment, but as people who were made for it. Because we are Easter people. And the story is not over yet! Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of the road and the table,

we come to you as we are.

Some of us weary from the journey,

some of us carrying grief we cannot name,

some of us holding hope with trembling hands.

You know the roads we have walked this week—

the conversations that have stayed with us,

the headlines that have unsettled us,

the quiet fears we have not yet spoken aloud.

And still, you draw near.

You do not wait for us to have clarity or certainty.

You meet us in our questions,

you walk with us in the chaos,

you listen as we share our heartache and heartbreak.

So today, O God, rekindle in us a living hope.

Where there is despair, breathe your life.

Where there is fear, steady our hearts.

Where there is cynicism, awaken in us a deeper trust.

We pray for a world that feels fractured—

for places where war rages and peace feels distant,

for communities burdened by injustice,

for leaders and systems that have failed the lives of so many.

Give us courage to be people of truth and justice.

Give us strength to resist what diminishes your image in others.

Give us grace to love all people, as we love ourselves.

We lift before you those in need of healing—

in body, in spirit, in relationships that feel beyond repair.

Be present, O Christ,

in hospital rooms and living rooms,

in moments of waiting and in moments of fear.

And remind us, again and again, that we do not walk alone.

That even now, you are with us.

We pray all of this in the name of the risen Christ,

who meets us on the road and is known in the breaking of bread. Amen.

Invitation to Communion

This is not a table for the certain, for those who have everything figured out.

This is the table where Christ meets us—

on the road, in our questions, in our unfinished faith.

It was in the breaking of bread that their eyes were opened.

Not because they understood everything, but because Christ was present.

So, all are invited to partake.

Partake if your hope feels strong or if your hope feels fragile.

Partake if you are still searching, still wondering, still walking.

Because this is the table where Christ is made known.

Invitation to Give

The disciples did not recognize Christ at first, but their hearts were already changing.

That’s how it is with grace. It meets us, it stirs us, and it begins to turn us outward.

So, we give, not out of obligation, but as a response to the One who has walked with us, who has opened our eyes, who sends us back into the world with purpose.

In a world shaped by scarcity and fear, our giving becomes an act of trust.

In a culture of taking, our generosity becomes a witness.

So let us offer our gifts, as signs of hope, as acts of resistance, as participation in God’s ongoing work of love.

Commissioning and Benediction

Go now—

not as those who have all the answers,

but as those whose hearts have been set ablaze.

Go back to the places you came from,

back to your homes, your work, your communities,

knowing that Christ goes with you.

When the road feels long, when hope feels distant, when you struggle to see, remember:

Christ is still drawing near.

Christ is still being made known.

Christ is still turning us around.

So go in courage. Go in compassion. Go in the unrelenting hope of Easter.

And may the love of God, the presence of Christ, and the power of the Spirit go with you, now and always.

Amen.

Love Gets the Last Word

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn EasterLeave a comment

John 20:1-20

Before the sun had the decency to rise, before hope had any real evidence to stand on, Mary Magdalene ran. Not casually walked. Not carelessly wandered. Not cautiously approached. Mary ran.

Because when love has been crucified, when dreams have been buried, when the world as you knew it has collapsed in on itself—grief does not move slowly or carefully. It rushes. It assumes. It fills in the blanks with the worst possible story: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

That’s what grief says.

Not, “He is risen.”

Not, “God is doing a new thing.”

Not even, “Let’s wait and see.”

No. Often in a downward spiral, grief concludes: “They have taken him.”

Things are bad, and it’s only going to get worse. When it rains, it pours. And we better get out the buckets cause the roof is going to leak.

It is the most human response in this broken world: to assume that what we love the most has been stolen, taken away, destroyed, and erased. And it is not coming back.

And if we’re honest on Easter Sunday 2026, we know that feeling.

Because we are living in a moment where it is easy, almost natural, to assume the worst. It is what we assume every time we check the headlines.

No one expects to turn on the news these days and hear: Good news! Things are not as bad as they seem! Good news! Better days are coming.

No, these days, we expect only news of despair. The secretary of defense calls himself the secretary of war and calls the hell that is war, “holy,” and uses religious language to bless overwhelming violence. Here at home, gas prices are still rising. Grocery bills continue to climb. Families sit at kitchen tables doing math that does not add up. All the while White Christian Nationalism is suffocating democracy. History is being whitewashed. And we wonder about the next election, if there will even be a next election. And we ask: Has the country we love been taken from us. And in the quiet spaces of our hearts, a question forms:

Has hope been taken from us too? Has something sacred been stolen from our lives?

And like Mary, we rush to conclusions. “They have taken…” They have taken our peace. They have taken our security. They have taken our freedom. They have taken our future.

The good news today is that Easter interrupts our assumptions. Because what Mary thinks has happened is not what God is actually doing. She comes to the tomb expecting death to have the final word. Instead, she finds confusion. She finds what seems like absence.

But what she really finds is mystery. And if we’re not careful, we will mistake the mystery of God for the absence of God too.

Early in my ministry, I remember sitting at a hospital bedside, the kind of room where the machines speak more than the people. A family gathered, holding hands, passing a tissue box to wipe tears, praying prayers that felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling. One of them finally said what everyone else was thinking but didn’t want to say it out loud: “Where is God in this?”

Not in anger. Not even in disbelief. Just…exhaustion, just grief. Because sometimes the silence of God feels like abandonment. Sometimes the unanswered prayer feels like absence. Sometimes the delay feels like denial.

And in that moment, there was no lightning bolt. There was no sudden turnaround. No miracle that tied everything up neatly. Just breath. Just presence. Just people refusing to let one another be alone.

And I remember realizing—almost against my will—that maybe God had not stepped out of the room.

Maybe God had simply refused to show up on our terms. Maybe the mystery of God is not that God is absent, but that God is present in ways we do not yet recognize. Present in the quiet grip of a hand. Present in the tears that fall without shame. Present in the stubborn love that keeps showing up even when hope feels thin.

We want a God who explains everything. But more often, we encounter a God who accompanies us through anything.

And that kind of presence—it doesn’t always feel like power. Sometimes it feels like weakness. Sometimes it feels like waiting. Sometimes it feels like an empty tomb before you understand what empty really means.

The good news of Easter is: just because we cannot see God clearly does not mean God is not working deeply. The mystery is not God’s absence. The mystery is that God is already at work—in the dark, in the silence, in the in-between—bringing life out of places we had already declared dead.

Let’s get back to our gospel lesson, for the story is getting ready to take to turn.

Peter and the beloved disciple run to the tomb. They see the linen cloths. They don’t fully understand—but something in them shifts. The story is not over.

And then Mary, still weeping, encounters a gardener…or so she thinks. “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” She is still operating out of her assumption: “They have taken him.”

Until he speaks her name: “Mary.” And everything changes.

This is the Easter truth we are invited into today: We are often wrong about how the story ends.

We assume God is not present when God is standing in front of us.

We assume loss when God is working resurrection.

We assume absence when God is preparing revelation.

We assume death has won when love is already rising.

As Rev. Dr. William Barber reminds us in his prophetic witness, “We must learn to see not just the pain of the present, but the possibility of redemption breaking through it.”

Easter is not naïve optimism. It does not ignore the cross. It does not pretend that violence, injustice, and suffering are not real.

No. Easter stares the powers of death in the face and declares: You do not get the last word!

Not war. Not “overwhelming violence.” Not religious nationalism.

Not greed. Not lies. Not systems that crush the poor, while protecting the powerful. Not even the grave itself. The good news of Easter is that love gets the last word.

But here’s the thing—we don’t always recognize resurrection right away. Mary doesn’t. She mistakes Jesus for the gardener. Which, if you think about it, is not entirely wrong.

Because resurrection is a kind of gardening. It is God tending to what has been buried. It is life pushing up through the soil of despair. It is beauty growing in places we had already written off as dead.

And maybe that’s what we need to hear this Easter: That even now—especially now—God is at work beneath the surface.

In communities organizing for justice.

In neighbors caring for one another when systems fail.

In courage rising up in unexpected places.

In love refusing to give up.

In people who have gathered on a rainy Sunday morning with the audacity to believe that something happened on that day Mary ran to the tomb, something mysterious happened that we call resurrection.

We may not understand it. We may never wrap our minds around it. But I don’t believe that is important. What is important is that we live it. It’s even more important than believing it.

Jesus says to Mary, “Do not hold on to me… but go.”

Go tell the others. Go bear witness. Go live as if love actually has the final word in this world.

And that’s the invitation of Easter for all of us.

In a world quick to assume the worst, we become people who dare to hope anyway. In a culture shaped by fear, we become practitioners of love. In a nation that chooses violence to get its way, we choose a life of nonviolence while praying, not my will, but God’s will be done. In the face of systems that profit from despair, we become witnesses to resurrection.

Not because things are not as bad as they seem.

Not because better days are right around the corner.

Not because life in this world is suddenly going to become easy.

But because Christ is somehow, some mysterious way, risen.

And that changes everything.

So, the next time you feel that familiar rush of fear, the next time your heart wants to say, “They have taken…”—

Pause. Breathe. And listen.

Because resurrection often begins with a voice calling your name.

Reminding us:

What you thought was gone is not gone.

What you thought was over is not over.

What you thought was lost is only being redeemed.

Hate does not get the final word. Violence does not get the final word. Despair does not get the final word.

Love does. It always has. It always will.

Alleluia. Alleluia.

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

Risen Christ,

we come to you this morning carrying everything—

the joy we can name

and the weight we cannot quite put into words.

We come like Mary,

early in the morning,

still holding our assumptions,

still wondering if something sacred has been taken from us.

And yet, you meet us here.

So we pray—

not as people who have it all figured out,

but as people who are learning to trust you in the mystery.

God of life,

we lift before you a world that feels fragile.

We pray for places torn by war,

for lives caught in the crossfire of decisions made far from their homes.

We pray for wisdom where there is power,

for restraint where there is anger,

for courage where there is fear.

Let your peace rise where violence threatens to have the final word.

We pray for those feeling the pressure of rising costs—

for families stretching every dollar,

for workers carrying quiet anxiety,

for those who must choose between what they need and what they can afford.

Be bread in empty places.

Be provision where there is not enough.

Be hope where worry has taken root.

We pray for those gathered here and those we carry in our hearts—

for the sick and the recovering,

for the grieving and the lonely,

for those facing decisions, diagnoses, and uncertain futures.

Risen Christ,

meet them as only you can—

not always with easy answers,

but with your unmistakable presence.

Call their names in the darkness.

Remind them they are not alone.

Hold them in a love that does not let go.

God, teach us to be people of resurrection—

not just in what we believe,

but in how we live.

Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.

Where there is division, make us builders of community.

Where there is injustice, make us seekers of your righteousness.

And when we are tempted to assume the worst—

to believe that love has been taken,

that hope has been buried,

that the story is over—

call our names again.

Turn us around.

Open our eyes.

Send us out.

We pray all of this in the name of the risen Christ,

who taught us to pray, saying:

Our Father…

Amen.

Invitation to Communion

This table is not for those who have it all figured out.

This is not a table for those who never doubted, never feared, never assumed the worst.

This is a table for Marys who come weeping. For disciples who run but do not yet understand. For people who have whispered, “They have taken…”

and are still learning how to say, “He is risen.”

Because at this table, we do not receive certainty—we receive presence. Bread that tells us God is still with us. Cup that reminds us love has already been poured out—and it has not run dry.

In a world where so much feels taken—peace, stability, freedom—this table declares: what God gives cannot be stolen.

Here, Christ meets us—not always where we expect, but always where we need.

So, come.

Come with your questions. Come with your grief. Come with your fragile hope.

Because the risen Christ is still calling our names, still breaking bread,

still reminding us:

Love does not lose. Love does not end. Love gets the last word.

 

Invitation to the Offering

In a world shaped by scarcity, we are taught to hold tight—

to protect what we have, to fear there won’t be enough.

But Easter tells a different story.

A story where life comes out of what was given away.

A story where love multiplies when it is shared.

A story where even what seemed lost is gathered up and redeemed.

So, we give—not because the world is secure,

but because God is faithful.

We give as an act of resistance

against fear, against greed, against the lie that death has the final word.

We give as a testimony:

that we believe in a God who is still bringing life out of empty places.

So let us offer our gifts, our lives, and our trust—

knowing that in God’s hands, nothing given in love is ever wasted.

 

Commissioning and Benediction

Go now into a world that will tempt you to assume the worst.

Go into places where fear speaks loudly,

where uncertainty lingers,

where it feels like something sacred has been taken.

But do not go as people of despair.

Go as those who have heard their name spoken by the risen Christ.

Go as those who know the tomb is empty—

not because nothing happened,

but because God happened.

And when you cannot see clearly,

when the mystery feels like absence,

remember:

God is still at work. Love is still rising. Hope is still alive.

So go—

to love boldly, to serve courageously, to live as witnesses to resurrection.

And may the God who brings life out of death,

the Christ who calls you by name,

and the Spirit who sustains you in every mystery

go with you, now and always.

Amen.

Holy Surprises at Sunrise

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn EasterLeave a comment

Invocation

Risen Christ,

you who meet us in the in-between,

on roads marked by uncertainty,

in moments we did not plan,

in places we did not expect,

draw near to us now.

As the light breaks over this new day,

break into our hearts again

with a hope we cannot control

and a joy we cannot contain.

Where we have given in to despair,

speak your living word.

Where fear has taken hold,

breathe your peace.

Where grief has settled deep within us,

call us again by name.

Meet us here—

not when we have it all together,

not when we have finally arrived,

but here, on the way—

and remind us

that we are not alone.

Open our eyes to your presence,

our ears to your voice,

and our hearts to your love,

that we might rise with you

to walk in newness of life.

For the dawn has come,

and still you come to us—

alive, unexpected,

and full of grace.

Amen.

Sermon

Matthew 28:1-10

Before the sun has fully risen…before certainty has returned…before the world has made sense again…two women are walking a road between grief and hope.

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary have come to a tomb carrying all the weight that comes with loving something the world has taken from you. They are not expecting resurrection. They are expecting silence. Finality. An ending.

And yet—the earth shakes, the stone rolls, and an angel speaks:

“Do not be afraid… He is not here… He has been raised… Go and tell… He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him… This is my message for you.”

It is a word meant to steady them. A word meant to give direction. A word meant to move them forward. Go to Galilee. That’s where resurrection will be.

And so, they go—afraid, yes, but also filled with great joy. Because even a trembling hope is still hope. But here is where the story surprises us. Because they don’t make it to Galilee. Somewhere on the road—before they arrive, before they figure it all out, before they get where they thought they needed to go—the Risen Christ meets them.

Not in Galilee. Not at the destination. But in the in-between. “Greetings,” he says. And suddenly the promise is no longer distant.

The hope is no longer deferred. The risen Christ is standing right in front of them. Which raises a holy, unsettling question for us this morning: What do we do with the fact that the angel said one thing…and yet, Jesus showed up somewhere else?

“You will see him in Galilee. This is my message for you,” the angel declared.

And yet, the risen Christ had his own way of arriving.

Maybe the angel wasn’t wrong. Maybe Galilee still matters. But if what this moment reveals is something deeper?

That even the messengers of God cannot map out all the places resurrection will break in. Even angels don’t get to control where new life appears. And if angels don’t know…then we certainly don’t.

Which means…hear this clearly this Easter morning: We cannot predict where Christ will show up. We cannot confine resurrection to a location. We cannot limit hope to what seems likely or reasonable.

And because of that, we can never give in to despair. Not now.

Not ever. Because despair depends on certainty.

Despair says:

“This situation is too far gone.”

“This violence will never end.”

“This division is permanent.”

“This grief will define the rest of my life.”

“This world is too broken to be redeemed.”

Despair pretends it knows the final chapter. But Easter interrupts that illusion. Because if the risen Christ can show up anywhere—on any road, in any moment, in any life—then despair loses its authority.

If the risen Christ does not even follow the directions given by angels…then there is no place left where hope cannot break in.

Not in a world at war.

Not in economies that strain and stretch families thin.

Not in communities fractured by fear and suspicion.

Not in the quiet, private griefs we carry that no one else sees.

Not even there. Especially there.

The women set out for Galilee thinking that hope was waiting for them down the road.

But they discovered that resurrection was already on the road with them. And maybe that is the word we need this morning.

We are always being told where hope is supposed to be.

“Things will get better when…”

“Peace will come if…”

“Joy will return once…”

We keep placing resurrection somewhere out ahead of us—

in Galilee.

But Easter says: Lift your eyes. Because Christ is not only waiting at the destination. Christ is meeting you in the middle.

On the road of uncertainty. On the road of grief. On the road between what has been and what will be.

“Greetings,” he says. And notice what the women do. They don’t analyze. They don’t debate. They don’t question whether this fits their expectations.

They fall at his feet. They take hold of him. They worship.

Because when resurrection meets you on the road, the only appropriate response is to cling to it. To trust it. To let it reorder what you thought you knew about what is possible.

And then Jesus says something that echoes the angel, but deepens it: “Do not be afraid… Go and tell my brothers…” Do not be afraid. Because fear and despair are close cousins.

Fear says: “We don’t know what’s coming.”

Despair says: “And whatever it is, it won’t be good.”

But resurrection says: You don’t know what’s coming—and that is precisely why you can hope. Because God is not limited to the outcomes you can imagine.

If Christ can appear where he was not expected, then new life can emerge where we have already given up looking.

If Christ can meet them on the road, then Christ can meet us here.

Here, in this fragile morning light, in this aching and beautiful world, in this moment that feels both heavy and holy.

And so, we go on. Like those women—with a strange mixture of fear and great joy.

We go on without having all the answers.

We go on without knowing exactly where resurrection will appear next.

We go on without the certainty we often crave.

But we also go on with this unshakable truth: Christ is risen. And because he is risen, hope is no longer confined.

It is loose in the world. Unpredictable. Uncontainable. Showing up where it shouldn’t, breaking in where it wasn’t planned, meeting us on roads we never expected to be holy.

So, we can never give in to despair. Not because everything is already fixed—but because resurrection refuses to stay where we put it.

Not because the world is easy—but because Christ is alive within it.

Not because we know what comes next—but because we don’t.

And somewhere—on some road you are walking even now—

the risen Christ is already drawing near. “Greetings,” he says.

Do not be afraid. Christ is risen. And he is already on the way.

 

Invitation to Communion

This is not a table for those who have it all figured out.

This is not a meal for those who know exactly where Christ will appear.

This is a table for travelers:

for those on the road between fear and hope,

for those who are still making their way to Galilee,

for those who have known grief, and yet dare to move forward.

Because the good news of Easter is this:

Christ does not wait only at the destination.

Christ meets us along the way.

So, partake.

Not because you are certain,

but because you are hungry.

Not because you have arrived,

but because Christ is already here.

Communion Prayer

Risen Christ,

we give you thanks this morning

for meeting us where we are—

not where we thought we needed to be.

You met the women on the road,

in their fear and their joy,

in their uncertainty and their hope.

And you meet us here.

In bread and cup,

in simple elements,

you come close again—

not distant, not delayed,

but present.

Pour out your Spirit upon us

and upon these gifts of bread and cup,

that they may be for us your life,

your love,

your resurrection.

And make us your body in the world—

a people who do not give in to despair,

a people who look for you

not only in the expected places,

but in every road we walk.

When we leave this table,

send us out with courage—

to trust that you are already ahead of us,

and already beside us,

and somehow, always still surprising us.

We pray in the name of the risen Christ,

who meets us and calls us forward.

Amen.

Easter Proclamation

One: When fear tells us the story is over—

Many: Resurrection is already on the move.

One: When grief convinces us all is lost—

Many: Christ meets us on the road.

One: When we do not know where hope will come from—

Many: We trust the God who surprises us.

One: When despair claims the final word—

Many: We proclaim life stronger than death.

One: Christ is not confined to where we expect—

Many: Christ is alive and already among us!

One: Christ is risen!

Many: Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Benediction

Go now into this Easter morning—

not with all the answers,

but with a living hope.

Go knowing that Christ is not confined

to where you expect to find him.

Go trusting that on every road you walk,

in every place you fear hope cannot reach,

the risen Christ is already drawing near.

So do not be afraid.

And do not give in to despair.

For Christ is risen—

not only at the destination,

but all along the way.

And wherever you go,

he will meet you there.

Amen.

Reviving the Heart of a Lady

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Sermons Year CLeave a comment

Acts 9:36-43

This morning’s epistle lesson is one of a handful of biblical stories where someone, other than Jesus, dies and is raised back to life.

In 1 Kings 17, we read the story of the prophet Elijah raising to life the dead son of a widow. Luke tells a similar story of Jesus also raising to life the dead son of a widow. Mark tells a story about Jesus raising the dead daughter of a synagogue official (Mark 5). And it is John who tells the infamous story of Lazarus (John 11).

In Acts 20, we read Luke’s fascinating story of Eutychus, the only person in the Bible who can blame his passing on a Sunday sermon that went too long!

Bless his heart, as Eutychus sat in a windowsill listening to Paul preach on and on and on and on, the poor fella nodded off to sleep and toppled out the window, falling three stories to his death!

To Paul’s credit, he stopped preaching and immediately ran downstairs. I suppose feeling somewhat responsible for his congregant’s tragic and untimely demise, Paul knelt down, propped the dead body up in his arms and said to the shocked eyewitnesses who were standing nearby: “He’s ok. He’s fine. Nothing to see here! Go on about your business.” Luke tells us Paul then went back upstairs and had communion, while Eutychus, having had his fill of preaching for the day, and maybe for the rest of his life, skipped the rest of the service and went away alive and well (Acts 20).

Now, who here today can believe that you could literally be bored to death by a sermon?

I know. All of you can.

But who here believes that if I so happened to bore one of you to death with one of my sermons, that I possess the power run down the aisle, prop up your lifeless body in my arms and bring you back to life?

No one believes that.

But we do have the new defibrillator now hanging up right outside the narthex ready to go. So, I guess you never know!

However, believing that one has the power to literally raise the dead back to life is no laughing matter. For example, no one would be laughing if someone’s heart did stop during the service, and I called off the one rushing the defibrillator down the aisle, exclaiming: “There’s no need here for science! Stand back! I got this!”

A few years ago, the nation watched in horror as members of a Pentecostal Church in Redding, California, inspired by the raising-the-dead stories in the Bible, prayed over the body of a 2-year-old little girl for five days, attempting to bring her back to life.

So, how should these stories be interpreted? Are they to be taken literally, or should we look for some deeper meaning, some symbolic meaning that is more true, more real, and more prophetic, than any possible literal understanding.

What are we to make of the story of Tabitha, the only woman referred to as a disciple in the in the New Testament, who died but was raised back to life by Peter?

We are told that she lived a life devoted to good works and acts of charity, but then, one day, she became ill and died. Those who had been caring for her washed her body and laid her in a room upstairs. She must have been an important figure in the life of the early church as the apostle Peter was immediately summoned to come to the home to pay his respects. As soon as Peter arrived, he was taken upstairs to the room where the body of Tabitha was lying in wake.

Among those at the visitation were (and I quote) “all the widows” of Joppa. They stood beside Peter weeping, showing off the items of clothing that Tabitha had made for them.

Think about that. “All the widows.” What an impact Tabitha had made to those who were among the most marginalized and disadvantaged in society, those who had been discounted— victims of injustice by being excluded from inheritance laws. They all stood around the body grieving, as their ally, their advocate, and their champion, was no more.

It’s then that Peter clears the room. He prays, and turns to the body and says, “Tabitha, get up.” Tabitha opens her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sits straight up.

What in the world can this mean?

The most obvious meaning to me is that this world needs more Tabathas. The world needs more Tabithas who are committed to good works, to acts of charity, and to defending and caring for the marginalized and the most vulnerable among us.

Heaven doesn’t need another angel, as people like to say at funeral visitations. We need more angels here on earth, specifically angels like Tabitha.

Earlier this week, I overheard a conversation between a local pastor and another man that went like this:

“I hope to retire at the end of the year,” said the pastor, “but I am worried that it may take a long time to find my successor, as there’s not many men studying for the ministry these days.”

The other man responded: “Well, in the interim, do you have some leaders in your congregation who might step up to help lead the church?”

The pastor replied: “We do have couple of young, godly men in the church who I am currently mentoring.” Then he said, “And I have this woman. She’s incredible, a hard worker, very devout and dependable.”

He then added: “If she were a man, I’d want to have her cloned.”

I should have spoken up.  But instead, I just quietly wondered if this preacher had ever heard the story of the church leader named Tabitha.

And then this wave of sadness came over me, as I was reminded of the role the church currently plays in supporting the subjugation of women in our society and is one of the main reasons I may not live to see a female elected President.

Tell me, when you first heard that “nine-year old baby girls need to be happy with two dolls this Christmas,” did you notice that there was no mention of anything boys would need to sacrifice?

Because sacrificing is for the women—those who should forgo a college education and a career so they can stay home where they belong and raise a family.

Today, we hear those in power mocking and discounting women who do not have biological children. The suggestion has even been made that the votes of women who do not have children should count less than women who have children.

Every day, it seems as if we encounter some form of hyper-masculinity that has historically associated with fascism.

In 1930’s Germany, as incentive to keep women in their place, and to keep immigrants in the minority, Adolf Hitler introduced the “Cross of Honor of the German Mother,” a decorative medal that honored “children-rich” mothers of German heritage, excluding Jewish Germans.

The medals came in three classes: the Bronze Cross for mothers of four or five children; the Silver Cross for mothers with six or seven children; and the Gold Cross for mothers with eight or more children.

Six years after Hitler’s medal program was introduced, Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin followed suit with the “Order of Maternal Glory,” also offering three tiers: “Third Class” for mothers of seven children; “Second Class” for mothers of eight children; and “First Class” for mothers of nine children.

Soviet women raising 10 or more children were given the title “Mother Heroine” up until the fall of the USSR in 1991.

In 2022, the Mother Heroine award was revived, adding a payment of 1 million rubles, which is equivalent to more than $12,000.

And now, the White House is considering implementing similar incentives, including payments of $5,000 in cash and a “National Medal of Motherhood” to moms in the U.S. who have six or more children.[i]

I believe it’s important to point out today that Tabitha is never described as a mother. We are only told that she was a faithful disciple, devoted to good works and acts of charity, especially among those who were marginalized and discounted by society.

Perhaps what this country needs is a “National Medal of Justice Doers!” Because what this country needs are more people like Tabitha. It needs more allies, advocates, and champions for the poor, the discounted, and the marginalized.

But what if Tabitha’s story means even more?

What if Tabitha is a larger symbol for our deepest and best moral value of caring for the least of these? And what if Peter in this story, the one who revives this value, the one considered by Catholics to be the first Pope, is a symbol for the church?

What if Tabitha is a symbol of kindness, compassion, mercy, and empathy? A symbol of diversity, equity, and inclusion? A symbol of welcome and belonging? A symbol liberty and justice for all, especially for those discounted and marginalized.

What if Tabitha is a large feminine symbol holding up a light for all those who are left out and left behind: the tired; the poor; the huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse, those considered despicable, regarded as garbage; the homeless; the tempest tossed?

Then, like the Tabitha in Luke’s story, we know today that she has fallen ill, gravely ill. You might say she has a heart problem, is heart sick, or suffering a heart attack.

Her heart has been broken by those who believe character no longer counts.

Her heart has been hardened by sexism, racism, fear, and greed.

Her heart has been jolted out of rhythm by chaos and confusion.

Her arteries have been clogged by the evil forces, the principalities, the powers, and the world rulers of this present darkness.

Hate has put her heart in cardiac arrest.

So, what do we do when the heart of liberty-and-justice-for-all stops beating?

Well, that’s when we summon Peter, we summon the church, we summon all disciples who are committed to the way of love Jesus taught. That’s when we summon all people who have good hearts, to be, in the words of Rev Dr. William Barber, “the moral defibrillators of our time” to shock what is the very heart of our nation! To shock what is the heart of this nation, liberty and justice for all, with the power of love and mercy, especially for the poor, the marginalized and the most vulnerable.[ii]

So, the question that Tabitha’s story beg of us today is this: Do you have a heart? Is there a heart in this congregation?

Do you have a heart for poor people? Do you have a heart for transgendered people? Do you have a heart for immigrants?

Do you have a heart for women? Do you have a heart for mothers who have been deported by ICE and separated from their families? Do you have a heart for the value, the worth, and the dignity of all women, regardless of whether they choose to have children?

Then you have been summoned today. You have been called to be “the moral defibrillators of our time” to shock our city with love, to revive the pulse of our state with mercy, and to raise back to life the very heart of our nation.

[i] https://people.com/trump-team-ponders-incentives-motherhood-birthrate-11719580

[ii] Address to the DNC by Rev. Dr. William Barber, 2016

I Have Seen the Lord!

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Sermons Year CLeave a comment

John 20:1-18 NRSV

It’s Easter, and all over the world preachers are feeling the pressure to preach the better-than-the-average sermon. All week they’ve been burdened to come up with something insightful, something profound, to say about this story of stories, preferably something their congregations have never heard before. Oh, the pressure!

Each week for a sermon, I write, on average, 1,800 words. This is the number of words that I, with my seasoned homiletical and ecclesial acuity, have deemed theologically and linguistically necessary to bequeath the congregation an appropriate word from the Lord. And on the Sundays I need to be better than average, like Easter, I am always tempted to go a little longer, like upward to 2,000 words or more.

Now, my wife Lori believes that I should be able to write a sermon, and she’d prefer I write a sermon, even for Easter, with much fewer words. But Lori hasn’t been to seminary, I tell myself.

That’s why, by the way, every now and again, I throw in seminary words like “ecclesial” and smart-sounding words like “bequeath”—to convince the congregation, and myself, that I know what I’m doing up here. And we preachers especially like to use big words on Easter!

However, as I prepared for today’s sermon, I came to realize that Lori may be right.  In fact, esteemed professor of homiletics Karoline Lewis, points out that the best Easter sermon ever delivered, and the sermon we desperately need to hear again today, was nowhere close to 1,800 words. It contained 5. Lewis says that the best Easter sermon ever delivered was proclaimed by Mary Magdalene on that first Easter morning: “I have seen the Lord!”[i]

That’s it. There’s your Easter sermon. “I have seen the Lord!” Now, let’s sing a hymn, have communion, and pass the peace!

Now, because I don’t want to be accused of being lazy on Easter, I will attempt to say a little more. But I tend agree with Rev. Lewis that, too often, our preaching, especially on Easter, is just “too much –too much explanation, too much justification, too much rationalization.” She says our preaching is too much expository and not enough experiential. It’s too much illustrational and not enough incarnational. She argues preaching needs to be less performance and more personal, more down-to-earth, more authentic.

That struck a chord with me this week, as I recently heard local colleague make the shocking assertion, that on some days, he has this sinking feeling that God is not in Lynchburg.

Now, that’s a dark statement coming from anyone, but coming from a pastor in this town, it’s especially chilling. Almost as chilling as it is ironic with the vast number of churches in our city.

Last year, one of my guilty pleasures in life was binging the dark TV drama series called “Preacher.” Lori didn’t care for it. I loved it. It’s a story based on a comic book hero, a Texas Preacher, who’s on a mission in Louisiana searching for God who’s gone missing. God just got tired of being God one day, vacated the throne, got on motorcycle, and headed to New Orleans to listen to some good jazz and have a good time. It’s a very dark and rather bloody story about the chaos that ensues when God forsakes and abandons the world. All hell literally breaks loose as vampires, fallen angels, demons, and the devil himself wreak havoc upon the earth.

And my colleague says this is what it can sometimes feel like serving as a pastor in Lynchburg, Virginia. He says he sometimes wants to cry out like Jesus from the cross, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken us?”

Maybe we have had days when we have wanted to do the same.

The lack of affordable housing, the number of people living with food insecurity, the plans to cut spending on public schools and social services, the ugliness on the city council—it can all seem like God has left the city limits.

Just last week, an owner of a new restaurant told me that he recently served dinner to a member of the city council who had the hateful audacity to advise him to refuse service to members of the LGBTQ community.

And then we have the number of people who claim to be Christians or even “Champions for Christ” who support ways that the exact opposite of the way of the inclusive, universal, unconditional love that Jesus taught, modeled, and embodied.

Looking at some parts of our city, we can easily identify with Jesus when he lamented what seemed like the absence of God in Jerusalem, crying: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!”

And you don’t even need to be religious to believe that God may have even fled the country—a nation where people can be snatched from their homes and disappeared to a gulag in El Salvador without any recourse. Bishop William Barber notes: “Like the lynching trees of the South and the crosses of Rome, these public acts of brutality are designed to inspire fear that compels the masses to comply. But we cannot comply.”[ii]

This is why on this Easter Sunday, we need to hear the personal, authentic, first-person, five-word sermon of Mary Magdalene: “I have seen the Lord!” We need a first-hand witness of the resurrection, not a third-person account, confession, or creed.

In these dark, seemingly God-forsaken days, we don’t need to hear the stale and old: “He was crucified, dead, and buried; the third day he rose from the dead…” or “Christ the Lord is risen; he is risen indeed.” That’s nice, that’s good, but these days, we need more.

We need a first-person, eye-witness testimony. We need to hear of a new and fresh encounter. We need somebody to stand up before us today and exclaim: “I have seen the Lord!”

As we demonstrated during our Maundy Thursday service, the good news is that we can easily point out all the places in Lynchburg where we have seen the Lord, where there is resurrection in the midst of ruin; the light of new life in the shadows of death; love, when all that seems visible is hate. There’s much goodness, generosity and compassion in the midst of all the meanness, selfishness and cruelty: Parkview Mission, Interfaith Outreach, Meals on Wheels, The Free Clinic…It would take much more 1,800 words to name all of the non-profits and organizations that are being the hands and feet of the Lord in this town.

 But proclaiming, “I have seen the Lord,” means even more than that.

“I have seen the Lord” means personally bearing witness to the resurrection. It means being a first-person, eyewitness, living testimony of Easter.

In the hateful darkness of a violent world that has rejected the way of Jesus and would crucify him all over again if it got the chance, “I have seen the Lord” means demonstrating that there is another way of being in the world— a loving, justice-seeking, non-violent way that embodies all that is life-giving. It means living and giving and loving and serving in such a way, that when others see you, watch you, listen to you, they say: “Wait one second. Did I just see the Lord?”

“I have seen the Lord” insists that the ways of love will always win over the ways of hate.

“I have seen the Lord” affirms that the way of peace will always overcome the way of violence.

“I have seen the Lord” confirms that the truth of kindness, mercy and decency will always be louder than the con of fear, confusion, and chaos.

“I have seen the Lord” asserts that the voices of compassion will always be heard over the clamor of cruelty and retaliation.”

“I have seen the Lord” is what Gandhi proclaimed when he shared a vision of a world where all of creation and every living creature is revered and respected, thriving in peace and harmony, when all most can see is ecological devastation, violence, war, oppression, injustice, colonialism, and imperialism.

“I have seen the Lord” were the exact words of Martin Luther King Jr. when he preached on the day before his assassination: “I have seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

“I have seen the Lord” is a proclamation that neither death by starvation in India, nor death by a bullet in Memphis, nor death on a cross in Jerusalem, can prevent love from winning and justice from coming.

Mary’s proclamation “I have seen the Lord” proclaims not only that a single stone was rolled away 2,000 years ago, but countless stones are still being rolled away today, all the stones that are used to prevent new life from rising: racist stones blocking paths to citizenship; bigoted stones blocking the doors of closets; corrupt stones blocking the power of free speech and due process; greedy stones blocking care for the environment; deceptive stones blocking the truth of science and history; and violent stones blocking any possibility of new life, justice, and peace.

“I have seen the Lord” is the justice those are demanding on the behalf of Abrego Garcia and every person deported unjustly. It’s the defiance of Harvard University, and the cry of all protesting the rise of fascism.

“I have seen the Lord,” when we speak it into our own lives, become words that have the power to roll back all the stones that confine and constrain the possibility that liberty and justice, dignity and respect can be for all people.

But “I have seen the Lord” is so counter-cultural, so counter-intuitive, often defying what we see with our own eyes, that it can be difficult to speak it. Especially to speak it personally, authentically in the first-person, to speak it with faith and conviction. It’s much easier to walk out of this service this morning and recite a third-person creed, “Christ the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed” than it is to honestly say in the first-person, “I have seen the Lord!”

Perhaps, like anything difficult, we need to practice it, and practice it daily.

So, in what places do you need practice it today? In front of what tomb do you need proclaim resurrection today?

What stone in your life needs to be removed today so you can be free?

What’s preventing you today from experiencing the joy of new life? What is blocking you today from enjoying peace, possessing hope, and knowing love?

On this Easter morning, when we walk out of this church building, where’s the first place we need to go to proclaim: “I have seen the Lord!”

Who do we know that may be unable to say it today, but needs to hear it, because they have been hiding in the tombs too long?

Today, we thank God for Mary Magdalene, the preacher of the best Easter sermon ever proclaimed, the good news we all need to hear today: “I have seen the Lord!”

[i] Sermon inspired by the thoughts of Rev. Dr. Karoline Lewis shared in an article entitled: True Resurrection, March 20, 2016

[ii] From The Power of a Moral Opposition: A Holy Saturday Reflection, April 19, 2025.

Being a Friend of Jesus

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Sermons Year B2 Comments
The actual note that was left by the truck driver in the story.

John 15:9-17 NRSV

This may sound strange, even a bit offensive, but I suspect some of you can relate. I struggle these days referring to myself as a “Christian.” As senior minister of the First Christian Church, part of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), it grieves me that the word “Christian” has been co-opted by folks who espouse the exact opposite views of Jesus, views that are best described as “anti-Christ.”

Sadly, if the word “Christian” is used to describe anything these days, whether it is “a Christian University,” or just “Christian values,” I automatically assume that the school or the values being described are diametrically opposed to the values of Jesus.

Allow me to share a story which illustrates this sad reality.

While I was a serving with the First Christian Church in Fort Smith, Arkansas, there was a teen in the church who was struggling with her gender identity. So much so, that it prompted me to attempt to create a support group for her and other teens who were struggling with the same issues. I contacted a school teacher who was a member of the LGBTQ community who had been attending to our worship services and asked her if she would meet with me to discuss the possibility of her leading a support group. She agreed to meet me at a restaurant after worship that Sunday to discuss it further.

I walked into the restaurant, looked around, and saw her sitting at the bar. I sat down on a stool beside her to her left. She immediately started talking about how she enjoyed the service. After a few minutes of talking about church, she saw a few friends on the other side of the restaurant and excused herself to go over and say “hello.”

It was then that this gentlemen, who was seated a couple of stools over from me, moved over to sit next to me.

He said, “Forgive my eavesdropping, but did I hear you were a Christian pastor?”

When I told him that I was, he began telling me how God must have led him into the restaurant that day. He went on to tell me that he was a truck driver who was just passing through that day. With religious language, he told me how he grew up in church, but had since “fallen away from the church and the from Lord.” But lately, the Lord had led him to listen to these “Christian” radio programs while driving truck, and it was making him consider coming back to church. And how he couldn’t believe he was now sitting beside a pastor at a bar of all places!”

I smiled politely, but I have to admit he lost me as soon as he said, “Christian radio.”

As soon as the truck driver’s meal arrived, the school teacher returned, and we immediately began discussing our vision for a support group to help LGBTQ youth in the city. After we talked for some time, she got up again to say goodbye to her friends who were leaving.

It was then that the truck driver leaned over to me and asked, “You do know what the law says about her don’t you?”

I replied, “What? Arkansas law?”

“No,” he said. “I am talking about the law, you know, the Bible.”

I responded, “Not sure if I know what laws you are referring to, but when they asked Jesus what the greatest law was, he replied, ‘Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.’ And he said, ‘that on these two laws hang all of the laws in the Bible.’”

The school teacher returned to the bar, and the truck driver got up, picked up his plate and drink, and moved back to his original seat.

As we finished our conversation about the support group, we never saw that the truck driver had left the restaurant without saying goodbye. How Christian was that? Before we got our checks, the bartender walked over to us, and asked me if I was a pastor. After the school teacher introduced me as her pastor, the bartender asked I knew the man who was sitting beside me. When I said “no” explaining that we had just met, she said, “Well, he left this note to warn me about you on the back of his receipt: ‘Beware of this guy on your left, my right. He is a demon in disguise.'”

This is just one example of how upside-down Christianity is today. It’s so backwards that when you quote Jesus saying that the greatest commandment is to love our neighbors, Christians will call you “a demon in disguise.”

So, these days, it’s very difficult for me to identify as a “Christian.” When asked if I am a Christian, I sometimes respond, “You know, Jesus was not a Christian. I am just trying to be whatever he was.”

Our gospel lesson this morning may offer people like me, and perhaps like you, some help as the risen Christ says to his disciples: “I do not call you servants any longer. . . I call you friends.”

“A friend of Jesus.” I like that.  These days, I’m liking it better than being a “Christian.” Especially when I read that being a friend of Jesus comes with a stipulation.

“You are my friends,” says Jesus, “if you do what I command you.” And this is my commandment, “that you love one another as I have loved you.”

Author Garrett Bucks, who visited Lynchburg this week, points out that religion is either “about being right” or “it is about love.” I believe what this world needs today are fewer “Christians” who are concerned about who’s right and who’s wrong and more friends of Jesus who follow his commandment to love one another.

Perhaps this is what the world has always needed, for throughout history, there has always been a large number of Christians who, although they claimed to be on the side of Jesus, were actually standing on the opposite side of Jesus and probably believed those who are trying to love like Jesus are “demons in disguise.”

During the Medieval period, Christians, in the name of Jesus, fought in the Crusades against the Muslims. In the name of Jesus, Christians supported the genocide of Native Americans and the slavery of Africans, which literally led to a Civil War. In the name of Jesus, Christians supported the Jewish Holocaust, Jim Crow laws, and still today support racist policies, laws that subjugate the rights of women, and legislation hurt the poor and LGBTQ people.

However, the good news is that there have always been friends of Jesus who have stood with Jesus by faithfully following his command to love one another, proving that the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

So, how do we know if we are standing with Jesus? How do we know we are friends of Jesus?

Well, whenever we are taking a stand against something or for something, we simply need to ask ourselves, am I standing on this side because of love? Do I have these beliefs because I am trying to love like Jesus, selflessly and sacrificially?  Am I in this fight because I love my neighbors as myself?

Or am fighting for something else? Is it pride? Is it power and privilege? If it is not about love for another, is about being superior to another, more holy, more right? If it is not about love, is it about fear? If it is not selfless and sacrificial, is it selfish? Is it greed?

You really want to know if you are a friend of Jesus?

Well, what do we say when we meet a friend of a friend? “Any friend of his or hers is a friend of mine!”

And who were Jesus’ friends? The gospel writers call him a friend of tax collectors and sinners. Because Jesus was a friend to anyone left out or left behind. That means that as friends of Jesus, we are committed to being a friend to the least of these. We cannot claim to be a friend of Jesus and not be a friend to the poor, to the sick, to the imprisoned, to the underprivileged, and to all those oppressed by the sick religion of the privileged.

And the good news is: Being a friend of Jesus means something else. It means knowing something of what the Risen Christ knows, as the Risen Christ says to his new friends, “I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.”

This is especially good news for those of us living in these upside-down days when Christians call pastors who quote Jesus “demons in disguise.” No matter how dark things seem in our world today, as we were reminded by a prophet named Martin Luther King, Jr., “that is when we can see the stars.”

This Jesus who taught love, revealed love, embodied love, and was crucified and buried for love, is still standing, still teaching, still revealing, and miraculously, still embodying love in the flesh before his friends. This one who was arrested, tried and executed by a deadly mix of sick religion and greedy politics for being a friend to the least, is still living, still free, still loving, still speaking, still inspiring love, because love never ends. In the words of the Apostle Paul, “love [truly] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.”

No matter how dark the world may seem, no matter how loud the voices of antisemitism, Islamophobia, Christian Nationalism and hate are, no matter how widespread the religious hypocrisy, no matter how upside down this world gets, the forces of fear and darkness, even the violent forces of death will never have the final word. Friends of Jesus can keep loving, keep befriending the least, keep standing for justice, keep speaking truth to power, keep the light of God’s love for this world burning, confident that this light will never be extinguished and will one day fully and finally change the world. Amen.

Easter People

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Sermons Year BLeave a comment

John 20:1-18 NRSV

Welcome to First Christian Church in Lynchburg, Virginia! According to our Facebook page, we are “an Open and Affirming congregation celebrating diversity with a reasoned faith and passion for justice.”

Anyone hear a problem with that? Especially today on Easter Sunday. Of course, I am talking about the word “reasoned.” I know we mean that we are thoughtful, thinking, don’t-check-our-brain-before-entering-the-sanctuary Christians who believe COVID and science is real, dinosaurs existed, the earth is not flat and more than 4,000 years old. But do you think there might be a better word to describe us than “reasoned?”

Because did you hear the words I read before Logan was baptized?

“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore, we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6).

Now tell me. What about that sounds “reasonable?” I guess we could add something else to it to make it appeal more to reason, like, I don’t know, some words from Thomas Jefferson, James Madison or Lee Greenwood?

Søren Kierkegaard, the great Danish theologian, writes: “Christianity has taken a giant stride into the absurd. Remove from Christianity its ability to shock, and it is altogether destroyed. It then becomes a tiny superficial thing…It’s when the absurd starts to sound reasonable that we should begin to worry.” He goes on to name a few of Jesus’ shocking and unreasonable assertions: “Blessed are the meek; love your enemies; go and sell all you have and give it to the poor.”[i]

If you listen to some of the most popular preachers today, Christianity is not about absurdity. It’s about nationalism. It’s about the freedom to oppress people who live, love and worship differently. It’s about turning back the clock, putting people back in their places, taking away their rights. Instead of being about seeing and loving transgendered people today, it is about ignoring them and hurting them.

Or it’s all about positive thinking. It’s about how to be successful, happy, satisfied, and at home, at work, and at play, in marriage, in friendships, and in business. There’s no absurd talk of answering a call to pick up and carry a cross to love another. No unreasonable talk of dying to self or loving our neighbors as ourselves. No foolish talk about the poor being blessed and the meek inheriting the earth.

Perhaps this tendency to rationalize the gospel has been with us since day one. Just listen to Mary and the way she makes sense out of that first Easter morning when she saw that the stone had been removed.

So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple…and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb…

Of course, that is what has happened. Any reasoned person with a lick of common sense can deduce this. It would be absurd to believe anything else!

“Mary stood weeping outside the tomb..”

Also a very reasonable thing to do in this situation.

As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white…They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”

She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

“And I do not know…” Here she comes close to the heart of the truth, that she “does not know everything,” that things in this world are not always black and white, but then it becomes obvious that she is still grounded in earthly wisdom, still constrained by human reason and good common sense: “I don’t know where they have laid him.”

When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus

Of course, it’s not Jesus. That would be absurd.

15Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for? Supposing him to be the gardener…”

Of course, he’s probably the gardener. That’s most reasonable explanation.

She says to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

A rational request, a reasonable appeal.

But the good news is that the risen Christ is continually liberating us from the restrictions of rational thought, reasonable assertions, and all the limitations of human reason!

The Risen Christ is continually breaking the restraints of common sense, pushing the boundaries of human logic. He is continually calling us out of the black and white world that we have all figured out to live in a new realm that many would regard as absurd.

And notice how he is does it. He breaks the barriers of worldly wisdom, the presuppositions that Mary has of what is going on in this world and not going on in this world, by calling her by name.

Jesus says to her, “Mary!”

And for Mary, this is the moment she takes a great stride into the absurd, the moment her whole world is suddenly transformed! This is the moment Mary began walking by faith and not by sight.

In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul writes these words:

[Jesus] died for all, so that those who live might live no longer for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them. From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we know him no longer in that way. 17So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!

The Apostle Paul is writing about a miraculous change that has been wrought in his life because of the change that has been wrought in the world through God in Jesus Christ.

 Paul is saying that at one time he understood Christ with the reason of mortals—as a great teacher, a fine moral example.But now he is able to see in the death and resurrection of Christ, a radical shift in the entire world. In Christ, a new age has been inaugurated. The whole world has been transformed. Just as God brought light out of darkness in creation, God has now recreated the world in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

This is what the great theologian Moltmann was trying to point out when he said, “We have attempted to view the resurrection of Christ from the viewpoint of history. Perhaps the time has come for us to view history from the viewpoint of the resurrection!”

Paul was saying that when Jesus was raised from the dead, the whole world had shifted on its axis. All was made new.

This is exactly what happened to Mary when the risen Lord called her by name.

When she hears her name called, Mary recognizes the risen Christ, turns and says to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher).

 And Mary experienced a transformation that was so real, that she was compelled to announce it to the world: “I have seen the Lord!”

You know, it’s one thing to experience something that you know the whole world thinks is absurd or foolish. But it takes foolishness to a whole other level when you go out and share that something with the world.

But that is just what people who have experienced the good news of Easter do.

The Apostle Paul once outrageously put it this way:

“The way of the cross is foolishness” to the world. “We proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to the Gentiles.”

That is why on this day of days, when some look at us gathered here, praying, singing, preaching and baptizing, repeating aloud that our Lord is risen, “he is risen indeed,” and they say that everything that we are doing here today only confirms their preconceptions that we are a bunch of fools who have who have lost our ability to reason, we smile and have the audacity to respond: “You have no idea just how foolish we are!”

“How foolish? you ask.”

Oh, as Easter people, we’re foolish enough!

  • As Easter people foolish enough to believe that the only life worth living is a life that is given away.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe the Kingdom of God belongs to the poor, that those who hunger and thirst for justice will be filled.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe the last shall be first.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that all things work together for the good.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that nothing can separate us from the love of God.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that this world can be a better place.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe we can take steps to heal our planet.
  • We’re foolish enough to live in the gray, understanding that not everything in this world is black and white. We can be losing ourselves while saving ourselves, believing there is joy in sorrow, beauty in chaos, hope in despair, and life in death. We can grieve abortions while supporting the reproductive rights of women. We can support law enforcement while believing black lives matter. We can call for a cease-fire in Gaza and pray for Palestinians, while standing firm against antisemitism. We can say free the hostages and free Palestine. And we can preach against Christian Nationalism and condemn a Bible with an American flag on the cover while loving God and country.

And we are foolish enough to take foolish to whole other level!

  • We’re foolish enough to respect the faiths of all people.
  • We’re foolish enough to call a Jew and a Palestinian our sibling and pray for them both.
  • We’re foolish enough to love our neighbors as ourselves.
  • We’re foolish enough to love an enemy, welcome a stranger, include a foreigner.
  • We’re foolish enough to forgive seventy times seven.
  • We’re foolish enough to turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, and give the very shirts off our backs.
  • We’re foolish enough to stand up for the marginalized, defend the most vulnerable, and fight to free the oppressed. That means that we are foolish enough to see our transgendered siblings this day.
  • We’re foolish enough to get back up when life knocks us down.
  • We’re foolish enough to never give up, never give in, and never give out.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that nothing can stop us, not even death.

Because, although it may seem absurd and far from reasonable, we believe somebody loves us.

Somebody came and taught us to see the world in a brand new way.

Somebody picked up and carried a cross.

Somebody suffered.

Somebody gave all they had, even to the point of death.

Somebody rose from the grave.

And that same somebody found us and called us by name.

Let us pray together:

Let the absurdity of the gospel inform and guide our lives.

         Continue to call us my name.

         Transform our lives.

         Fashion us with the hands of Christ.

         Form us with the heart of Christ.

         Shape us with the hope of Christ.

         So that we may live as those who believe in the communion of the saints, the forgiveness of sins and the resurrection of the dead.

As those who live as Easter people proclaiming to all people:

         Christ is risen!  Alleluia!

Christ is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

[i] http://sojo.net/magazine/2007/08/foolishness-cross

He Is Not Here

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Short ArticlesLeave a comment

christian-pro-choice

As I was drinking coffee on Easter Sunday morning, I took the common risk of picking up my phone to scroll through my Facebook newsfeed. One of the first posts that I read was from a friend making the assertion that there was no way one could be a Christian if one did not hold a certain position on the reproductive rights of women.* Of course, this person is not the only friend of mine who has made such statements on social media. I have read countless posts from others asserting that one cannot be a Christian unless one believes “this” or “that.”

Then, I went to church and heard the good news:

“But the angel said to the women: ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here!’ (Matthew 28:5-6 NRSV).

The good news is: “He is not here!”

We cannot keep Jesus sealed in a tomb or behind four walls. We cannot keep Jesus in any little box we construct. We cannot keep Jesus confined to our limited and shallow understanding of the world and this mystery we call “life.”

“He is not here.” He cannot be retained in any enclosed tomb we devise. He cannot be locked up in any particular doctrine, creed or confession we write. He cannot be limited to any political ideology nor constrained to any religious belief.

Yes, perhaps the best news of all is: “He is not here.”

His love is bigger than we can imagine, and his grace is beyond anything we can create. His peace is beyond all understanding. With Jesus, there are no limits, no restrictions, no boundaries. The stone has been rolled away, and “he is not here.”

Then, where is Jesus? From what Matthew has taught us, I believe we know where.

Jesus is with the stranger, the sick, the hungry, the thirsty, the naked and the imprisoned. He is always with the least of these among us.

Jesus is with those who have been ostracized from community. He is with the outsider, the left out and the shut out. He is especially with those the self-righteous have labeled “not Christian” because of certain political or religious beliefs.

The good news is, that no matter what you may read on Facebook, Jesus is always with all of us, “to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20 NRSV).

 

* For my thoughts on women’s reproductive rights read: Why This Christian Pastor Is Pro-Choice: It’s Personal.

Autumn People

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Short Articles1 Comment

Autumn-Leaves-in-sunshine

Christians are fond of saying that they are Easter people. We say we have a spring-time faith. We are about new life springing forth.

What we tend to forget is that before spring can happen, autumn must come. Before new life can spring forth, something must die. Before Easter could arrive, someone had to pick up and carry a cross.

We have many difficult issues facing our country today. According to a recent poll by the Associated Press, only 24% of Americans believe we are heading in the right direction. The status quo seems to be dividing us further, emboldening the hate among us, and leading us into a nuclear winter.

Christians have responded in typical fashion.

Some Christians have embraced the status-quo, for change is too uncomfortable. They have chosen to live in denial with blind eyes, deaf ears and hard hearts.

More Christians understand that our nation is heading in the wrong direction, but they have made the decision to tune it all out and do nothing to try to change anything. They have chosen to retreat into safe sanctuaries to sing about Easter and going to heaven.

However, if Jesus chose comfort and safety, if Jesus embraced or ignored the status quo, Easter could not happen.

I believe the time has come for Christians to rediscover our call to be autumn people.

The time has come to let the old ways of being Christian die. Like the leaves of a tree, we must let our old ways of self-preservation, our old ways denial and retreat, fall to the ground and be swept away.

The time has come for us to pick up and carry a cross. The time has come for us to risk something, sacrifice something, and do something. We must depart the safety and the comfort of our sanctuaries to stand against evil, liberate the oppressed, rescue the perishing, and speak truth to power.

We must be willing to sacrifice something for justice, lose something for kindness, give away something for peace, die to something for love.

For it is in losing we find. It is in dying we live. It is in being autumn people we become Easter people.

Easter People Behind Locked Doors

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter, Sermons Year A5 Comments
Andrew Finiish
As a Special Olympian, Andrew has run in many 1 mile “fun runs,” but he has always dreamed of finishing a 5k race. However, Down’s Syndrome and surgically-reconstructed knees have made it impossible. The good news is Easter transforms impossibility into reality.

1 Peter 1:3-9 NRSV

It’s the Season of Easter. The Lord is Risen. Christ is alive! Jesus is on the loose. The Messiah is on the move. And he’s coming for his disciples! He’s coming to offer them an incredible gift!

As our Epistle Lesson testifies:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead…” (1 Peter 1:3).

And where are the disciples?

The first verse of our gospel lesson this morning reads: “When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked…”

Jesus is alive. He is moving out in the world, and the disciples are inside a building, cowering behind locked doors.

Now, it is nighttime, a dangerous time in any city, and here in the city of Jerusalem on this night, maybe they had a good reason or two to lock their doors.

The most obvious reason being their fear that the religious leaders who organized to crucify Jesus would soon be coming after them. The ones who began plotting from the very beginning to put an end to Jesus and his message were quite possibly even now plotting to put an end to them.

So, who could blame them for locking the doors.

But then, there may be have been another reason those doors were locked.

Remember, Mary Magdalene has told them, “I have seen the Lord.”

And what do the disciples do? They lock their doors.

Could it possibly be that they did not know what kind of gift the Risen Christ was bringing to them: a new birth into a living hope through his resurrection?

Or could it be that they knew exactly the kind of gift Jesus was bringing?

After all, they were all witnesses to what had to taken place before Easter could happen: Before a new birth into a living hope could come, somebody had to pick up a cross.

So Jesus might be coming with the promise of new birth into a living hope, but before this new life can fully realized, there might be some more cross bearing to do.

And this was certainly no new concept for them. For they had heard Jesus say on numerous occasions: “to gain one’s life, one must first be willing to lose one’s life.”

They had heard Jesus say, the road to rebirth, the way to new life, the route to resurrection, the path to Easter, was very narrow and very few find it. For it’s a road of self-denial. It’s a way of self-expenditure. It’s a route of sacrifice. It’s a path of suffering.

So, when they heard that Christ was on the loose and he was coming with the promise of new birth into a living hope through his resurrection, of course they locked the doors.

Just like we lock our doors.

And my, my: The locks that we use! The barriers we create! The walls we build!

His way is just so radical, so revolutionary, so scandalous, we do all we can do to shut him out.

“I know Jesus said that he is ‘the way, the truth and the life,’ but we still prefer to do things our way, make up our own truth, live our own life.”

“I know Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the poor,’ but isn’t that the Salvation Army’s job?”

“I know Jesus never excluded anyone, but perhaps we ought not advertise that.”

“I know Jesus said ‘the first shall be last,’ but I still think we should put America first.”

“I know Jesus called women to be his disciples, and I am aware that whenever he had an opportunity, he elevated the status of women, but they really shouldn’t serve behind the table or preach behind a pulpit.”

“I know Jesus stopped the self-righteous from throwing rocks at a sinner, but if we are not careful we are going to make our church ‘a haven’ for all kinds sinners.”

“I know Jesus said that when we welcome the stranger we welcome God, but ‘pardon me, I believe you are sitting in my pew.’”

“I know Jesus said ‘forgive seventy times seven,’ but the Bible says those people are abominations!”

“I know Jesus said we could learn from Syrophoenicians and Samaritans, and he said, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ but surely he did not mean for us to love our Muslim neighbors!”

“I know Jesus said ‘there are other sheep who do not belong to this fold and we must bring them in also,’ but ‘You’re not a member of this church. So, what are you doing here?’”

“I know Jesus said feed the hungry, but we have to be fed too.”

“I know Jesus talked about being salt for the world, but are we going to let those people use our salt…and our pepper…and our sugar… and our sweet ‘n’ low?”

I want to suggest that it wasn’t just great fear that caused the disciples to lock those doors. It was also great courage.

For it takes some incredible nerve, some brave audacity, some serious brass, to lock the Risen Christ out of the building.

And sadly, ever since that first Easter evening, people who claim to follow the way of Jesus have been brazen in their attempts to thwart the way of Jesus.

Think about it. We have to be pretty bold to dare to reduce the meaning of the death-defying power of the resurrection. We have to be pretty brave to call ourselves “Easter People” and then water down the meaning of it.

I am grateful that church pews all over Enid were full last Sunday. However, I am afraid that the only reason many people came to church was merely to thank God that they, like Christ, will one day be resurrected to live forever. I am afraid the reason some church pews were so full on Easter Sunday was simply because “Easter People” wanted to remember Jesus’ resurrection and look forward to their own.

But if that is all Easter truly means, do you really believe those disciples would have locked those doors on that first Easter Sunday?

No, those doors were locked, because those disciples knew exactly what Easter means. They knew that Easter means the resurrection offers a living hope for this world, and not just for the next world. Easter is something to be lived today and freely shared with all who need re-birth and new life now.

But to do that, to offer that Easter hope to others, to truly live as Easter people, means that someone is going to have to pick up a cross.

It means that someone is going to have to deny themselves. It means someone is going to have to lose themselves. It means someone is going to have to open a door, leave a building, remove a barrier, tear down a wall, go outside, bend down to the ground, pick up a cross and walk in the steps of Jesus.

It means someone is going to have to share. It means someone is going to have to sacrifice. It means someone is going to have to suffer. It means someone is going to have to do something more than study a lesson, sit on a pew, sing a hymn and listen to a sermon.

So, the disciples, like you and like me, locked the doors.

Now listen to the good news:

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked… Jesus came and stood among them.”

The good news is that the doors we lock, the barriers we create, the walls we build, will not thwart the way of Jesus! Despite our bold and brazen attempts to stop Jesus from coming, to shut him out, he’s still coming. And nothing is going to stop him or even slow him down.

And he is coming to lead his Easter people get out of the building, to pick up a cross and bring rebirth and new life to all whose lives have been diminished, to all those who have been de-humanized by poverty, disability, bigotry and hate.

And here is some really good news: To bring new life, by the grace of God, we may not have to hang on that cross. We might not have to shed any blood. We may not even have to get arrested. We just need to be willing to pick up a cross and carry it a little way. The Risen Christ will carry it the rest of the way.

Running 3.1 miles is nothing for Gary Hula. Gary has been running 26 miles before church on Sunday for the last several weeks in training for the Oklahoma Memorial Marathon. Gary can run 3.1 miles while reading the News and Eagle and drinking a cup of coffee!

But that is how far Gary usually runs while pushing someone with special needs for Ainsley’s Angels.  Just 3.1 miles. Takes Gary 20 minutes.

But after a 3.1 mile race last week, the mother of the 26-year-old man with surgically reconstructed knees and Down’s Syndrome, who rode in a running chair that this church purchased for just a few hundred dollars, said and I quote: “My son’s dreams have come to life.”

Can you hear the resurrection in that statement? Do you hear Easter in that mother’s voice?

The next day the risen Christ came and helped us to welcome some of the most impoverished people in this community for a meal in our Fellowship Hall. Now, we didn’t do that much. The Oakwood Country Club prepared all the food. All we had to do was warm it up and put it on some plates. We just had to show up, unlock a couple of doors, and invite people in. We just had to be kind to people, treat people as we would want to be treated.

But after serving that meal, one of the guests said to a volunteer: “Today, you have made me feel human again.”

Do you hear the rebirth in that statement? Do you hear the new life? Can you hear Easter in that woman’s voice?

The good news is that because the Lord is risen, because Christ is alive, because Jesus is on the loose in this world, because the Messiah is on the move, all we may have to do to be the Easter people the Risen Christ is calling us to be is to be willing to unlock a door.