Sermon for Sunday 26 April 2020
Sermon for Sunday 26 April 2020
May the
words of my mouth and the
meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. Amen.
On Tuesday, I had my first chance to
enter the Old City in more than a week. The last time had been Easter Sunday,
when I met with Bishop Azar and Pastor Fursan to record a few prayers at
Redeemer Church—a profoundly strange experience, to be celebrating the
Resurrection of Our Lord without any of you, and in fact without any assembly
at all.
On the way into Damascus Gate this
time around, I bought myself a few new face masks, and said hello to some shopkeepers
I hadn’t seen in a while. There were only a few merchants with doors open—notably
Ja’far Sweets was still handing out pieces of knafeh through a slightly cracked
door. But there were no village women lining the streets selling vegetables and
herbs. There were no children on scooters barreling through the crowds.
Actually, there were no crowds at all, only a few local residents, a few
soldiers, and a few priests. But there was a noticeable presence in the air
around us, something like a mist of grief and anxiety we were all walking
through, each of us breathing it in and out, in and out, even through our face
masks.
After meeting with the Bishop at the
church and completing a few office tasks, I put my mask back on and walked home
a different way, this time heading up towards New Gate. It was eerie to walk
past a locked Church of the Resurrection, and then down Christian Quarter Road
all by myself, with only the sounds of doves nesting overhead. A wave of
sadness washed over me. This is not how I had ever imagined springtime in
Jerusalem. This is not the Easter I had hoped for.
But then, a bicycle suddenly rounded
the corner, rushing straight toward me. The rider obviously wasn’t expecting
anyone else to be on the road. Just when I thought it might hit me, the bike came
to a stop and the rider said, “Sister! Hello! Happy Easter!”
I looked at this masked rider and
thought: Who. In. the. World. Is. this?
I didn’t recognize him at all. He
could have been anyone.
He was wearing all black, with a
helmet and gloves and a large face mask, the professional kind with filters that
covers you from your lower eyelids all the way to beneath your chin.
Good for him! I thought. He’s being
safe. Thanks be to God.
But really: Who in the world is this
masked man?
“Hello!” I replied. “Happy Easter!
How are things going?” (Please, I was thinking, just give me a hint about who
you are…)
“Well, it’s been a strange Easter for
sure” said the masked man. “I’ve just been doing as I always do.”
(not helpful, I thought…)
But he continued: “You know I always try
to encourage others with my photos.”
Aha! Suddenly my eyes were opened,
and I knew who he was! This was my friend Issa, a Palestinian Christian from
the Old City, who’s been taking photos of the locked down Holy Sepulchre Church
and posting them on social media for the world to see.
Issa and I chatted a bit longer—about
our experiences of a Holy Week in Jerusalem that was like no other, about his
practice of lighting candles and praying for those who can’t come to church,
about keeping hope alive in this time.
Issa said, “Sister, the people will
come back. The church has survived here for 2,000 years. It’s not about to be
stopped by a little virus!”
“Amen,” I agreed. “It was good to see
you, Issa.”
“You too, Sister” he replied—and then
the masked man zipped on past me on his bike.
As I walked on toward New Gate, I had
to chuckle a bit. Just moments earlier I had been thinking about our Scripture
text for today, the Walk to Emmaus, and I had been struggling mightily to identify
with it. After all, this text is filled with everyday experiences that now seem
to be from another time, long ago and faraway:
Two friends take a long walk
together.
Remember when we could do that??
These two invite a stranger to come
closer and walk with them.
Nope, stranger danger! Can’t do that
anymore, either.
The three of them all sit down to
break bread together and discuss the events of the day.
Nope, nope, nope! Not for a while
now. Probably not for a long while to come.
I wondered what in the world this Scripture
text had to say to us today. Frankly, I wondered what this text had to say to me
today.
But just as She always does, God
showed up in a big way. My eyes were opened, as the Risen Christ revealed himself
to me through my masked friend Issa and his bicycle, bringing me encouragement
and strength for my journey through the empty streets of Jerusalem, and for my ongoing
journey of faith. Thanks be to God!
I’ve always wondered how it was that
Cleopas and the other disciple didn’t recognize Jesus on their walk to Emmaus. How
could they not know him? Was his resurrected body so different from before? That
seems unlikely, as the disciples in the upper room seemed to have known it was
him much sooner—and we know Jesus was still bearing the wounds of his crucifixion,
which is how Thomas was convinced it was really him.
I’m certain Jesus wasn’t wearing a
face mask or a bike helmet when he joined Cleopas and his friend on the way to
Emmaus. But maybe, like me, they were kept from recognizing him because they
turned inward. Maybe, like me, their eyes were cast downward, distracted by
disappointment, by grief, by worry. Maybe the strangeness of the times they
were living through clouded their vision, like that mist I sense is hanging
over our city today—invading our thoughts, weighing down our hearts.
Maybe that
mist is hanging over your city, too.
But then, in a flash, in the breaking
of bread and sharing of a meal, the disciples knew it was Jesus. “Were not our
hearts burning within us!” they cried. “How did we not recognize him!” And
then, just as quickly as he appeared alongside them, he was gone from their
sight—but never from their sides.
Oh friends, what strange times we are
living through. Like Cleopas and his friend, we have many questions, and many dashed
hopes to grieve.
We had hoped to see the sun rise on
the Mt of Olives on Easter morning.
We had hoped to see friends and
family.
We had hoped to plan a summer
vacation.
We had hoped our jobs would survive.
We had hoped this would last just a
few weeks.
But here we are. Nothing is as we had
hoped it would be.
Some days, it’s tough to see the hand
of God at work in the world. Some days, it’s a real struggle to recognize Jesus
with us. It’s as if he, too, is wearing a facemask.
But then, like my friend Issa and his
bicycle, just at the right time, Jesus shows up! In fact, it’s not so much that
he shows up as that our eyes are opened, and we recognize that he’s been with
us all along.
True, Jesus looks a bit different
today. We can’t meet him in the bread and the wine on Sunday morning. We can’t
meet him around a dinner table with a dozen friends. We can’t meet him in the
eyes of a stranger—unless that stranger stays 6 feet away and is wearing a mask
and gloves!
And still—Christ is with us. He walks
alongside us.
The Risen Christ is with me walking
the empty streets of Jerusalem.
He is with you, filling the empty
chairs at your dinner table.
He is with us all, filling the empty
spaces in our hearts, hearts that may feel hollowed out by the disappointments,
worries, and sorrows—small and large—that seem to keep coming these days. He is
with us, healing our hearts with a love that will not give up on us, will not
give up on the world.
Speaking of eating, and of those empty
chairs at the table, I want to leave you with a few thoughts on breaking bread
during this peculiar time. A friend shared with me a family tradition of
keeping a bowl in the center of the dinner table, with a little stack of paper
and a pen next to it. Whenever anyone has a prayer request—or hears of one—they
write it down and place it in the bowl. Then, at mealtime, they draw out one or
more slips of paper and pray for that person in need, or that situation that is
breaking God’s heart.
I’d like to encourage you to make a
prayer bowl like this in your home. Set it on your table, or on the kitchen
counter, or wherever you will see it often. Throughout the day, fill it with the
names of those friends and family members you would love to have at the table
with you. And then, when it’s supper time: Light a candle. Maybe use the fancy
plates that usually only come out for guests! And then choose a slip of paper.
Pray for that person by name. Maybe call them after supper! Or (as I’ve done
recently)—call and have them join you for supper by phone or video.
And then, give thanks to God for opening
our eyes to see Jesus, crucified and risen, who is with us on the way, at the
table, and to the end.
May the peace of God which passes all
understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.
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