Creekside Church Sermon of April 11, 2004 "We're On Our Way Home" John 20:1-18	Rev. David Bibbee
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There is a disorder that plagues a segment of the population at this time of year. You won't find it in medical or psychological diagnostic manuals. You won't read about it in the Journal of the American Medical Association. I doubt if you have even heard of it, but you have seen the debilitating disorder has upon pastors. It is called, EAS-"Easter Anxiety Syndrome."

The Easter sermon puts a lot of pressure upon pastors. Part of it we place on ourselves. How do I say what's already been said in a fresh way? What words and images do I use to convey the meaning of the singular, most important moment in human history that has redefined the present and determines the future?

In our last Lenten study I the last words uttered by famous people before their death. One artist said, "I have failed God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have." These were Leonardo deVinci's words-- one of the most creative people who ever lived.

When creating the Easter sermon, pastors sound like Leonardo. We expect a lot of ourselves. If we have anything worth saying, Easter is the time to say it, but we always fall short. You, the Easter worshippers exacerbate the disorder. You sit, dressed to the nines in pastels, floral prints, and hats. The kids are decked out in their new Easter outfits. People who don't attend church come on Easter because they have an unspoken hunch that if they are going to learn what life is all about, this is the day and place to hear it. A lot of energy has been expended dragging reluctant relatives to church. Some of you have already "tuned me out' because you are among those who have been drug here. You may think that since you've gone to all this trouble, you have a right to expect something special. At the very least you are after the hope you need to live in these turbulent, troubling times.

So here is what I'm not going to do. I will not give irrefutable proof that Jesus was raised from the dead. Easter isn't an exercise in proof. It is all about faith. I won't argue against doubts about the resurrection.

What I will do is tell the truth. Truth is like flowers. They don't argue, they just bloom. I will not wear you out trying to explain the mystery of the moment when God raised his Son. In 1 Corinthians, the Apostle Paul prefaced his remarks about the resurrection. "Listen, I tell you a mystery." Not, "I will explain a mystery." A mystery explained is no longer a mystery.

The theologian, Reinhold Neibuhr once said:

Only poets can do justice to the Christmas and Easter stories, and there aren't many good poets in the pulpit. It is better to be satisfied with symbolic presentations.

Believe me, I know my limits. Easter's pageantry and poetry says more than I can muster. With this in mind, I suggest that we let the story tell itself. Easter is a day of celebration. "Christ the Lord is risen today!" We have benefited from 2,000 years of reflection, experience, and faith to inspire us. But this was not the case people present at the first Easter.

Jesus had wrecked the disciple's weekend. After Jesus had been tried, taunted, and terminated, shattered hopes were all that remained. An outcome they could not imagine, happened. The disciples were hiding, but safety was Mary Magdalene's least concern. She went to the tomb early on Sunday. The sky was dark as her soul. When she arrived, the tomb was opened. She ran to tell Peter. He and another disciple raced like the wind to the tomb, and when they arrived, they peered inside. No Jesus. Just burial clothes. It turned out he wasn't a resident, after all. Jesus was just a guest, and being a good guest, before he left, he made the bed. The linen was neatly folded up.

Peter and his companion ran back to their hideout. Mary arrived a second time. While she wept at the tomb, two angels asked, "Why are you crying?" The gardener showed up and asked the same. "Why all the tears?" Then he spoke her name. It was Jesus! He told Mary to tell that disciples that he was going home to his Father.

Jesus told the disciples he was going to prepare a place for them… a place in his Father's house… a mansion with lots of rooms, enough for everybody.

Frederick Buechner tells the story of his dear friend, an Englishman named, Dudley Knott. Dudley had died unexpectedly in his sleep. It was a tremendous loss for all who knew him. Two months after his death, Buechner and his wife spent the night with Dudley's widow. That night he had a dream that Dudley was standing by the bed, wearing his favorite clothes-a blue jersey and white pants. He said how much he missed him, and then he asked, "Are you really there, Dudley?" He wanted to know if he was dreaming. Dudley said he was really there. He asked him to prove it. Dudley replied, "Of course." He pulled a stand of wool from his jersey and tossed it to Buechner. He caught it between his thumb and forefinger. It felt so real it woke him.

At breakfast, he mentioned the dream. He hardly finished when his wife said she had seen the strand on the carpet when she got up. She was sure it hadn't been there the night before. He rushed upstairs and there it was-a little piece of navy blue wool.

What do we do with such an experience? Was the wool really a sign that he had been visited by his friend? Had Dudley really returned to his old home from his spiritual home? There were plausible explanations. The wool could have been there all along. It was just a dream. It couldn't have been him, could it? Maybe it was a sign that there really is something to the resurrection, after all… a sign of God's grace. Maybe it's not just a doctrine.

A while back, Twig recalled what a nice man my father was. I think of him often. I knew my father, but there was so much about him I didn't know, and now, eight years after his death, I regret not knowing. On Friday afternoon I recalled a dream I had early that morning. I was in an unfamiliar place looking for Dad. I walked up to people I didn't know and asked if they had seen him. They all had. "I saw him this morning, a block from here." Another said, "He was here a couple hours ago." Another said, "He was just here. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes ago. He went that way."

I was getting closer, but close was all I could get. He was always, "just ahead." I remember telling myself, "You're dreaming this. I felt sad, wondering if I would ever see Dad again, even if just in this dream. How do I know he still IS? If I could only have a sign. Then, as I was about to wake, I saw something on a sidewalk. It was a smoldering cigarette butt. I picked it up and knew it was his. End of dream. Dad smoked most of his life. I'm not sure why I bothered to tell you about it, except to say that it hit me yesterday-I had the dream on Dad's birthday.

I'm won't make something major out of it. Maybe it was just a bowl of thoughts ladled from the soup of my unconscious. Only a dream. Just a coincidence that happened to have happened on his birthday. Or maybe not. Maybe he came to leave a calling card… a little token to say, "I'll see you when you get home." Maybe it really does mean something, or nothing at all. I don't know.

We do we do with such experiences? Frederick Buechner says it comes down to this: "If I had to bet my life on one possibility or the other, which one would I bet on? If you had to bet your life, which would you bet on? On Yes, there is a God in the highest and Meaning and Mystery in the deepest, or on No, there is whatever happens, and it means whatever you choose it to mean, and that is all there is?" In light of Easter, I know where I'm putting my money.

In the other gospel accounts of Easter, the women ran to tell the disciples that they had seen Jesus alive and well. But the disciples chalked it up to Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. They called their report an, "idle tale." It wasn't long until Jesus was in their midst-a real presence and not a ghost.

Maybe you came today "in case" something might happen. Maybe you thought you might get a peek behind the curtain and see that there is substance to Christianity's claim after all. Failing that, maybe you thought you might feel a touch or sense a presence-just enough to convince you that Jesus is alive and there is something substantial to bet your life upon.

William Temple, the Archbishop of Canterbury once said, "Nothing is more sure than life after death. But I don't have any idea what it will be like, and I'm glad I don't, for I know my idea would be wrong."

Easter has more to do with what happens after we leave here than what happened in a garden a long ago. It is easy to see Jesus among the lilies on Easter Sunday. But most often he is in the weed patches of our lives. In our daily struggles, in this fragile, troubled world is where you will see him. Despite the differences in details in each of the gospel accounts of what happened early one Sunday, two messages are consistent. "HE IS RISEN!" and "HE IS NOT HERE." "Tell my disciples that I go ahead of them into Galilee (meaning into the world), there you will see me."

Jesus lives where we live. He lives in the thick of the dear and dreary days of our lives. His presence transforms the monotony of life into something special. There were two men who worked on opposite sides of an assembly line. One was responsible for installing nuts and bolts, the other, sprockets. While they worked they talked about their vacations. Mr. Nuts and Bolts said he was looking forward to his vacation, and Mr. Sprocket said he was not going to take a vacation this year. "Why not?" the other asked. He replied, "I went elephant hunting in Africa last summer." "Did you get any elephants?" "No, but I found an elephant. It charged me, but the firing mechanism on my gun jammed, and I was killed." "What do you mean, you were killed? You're not dead. You're right here living." And the other replied, "You call this living?"

Who hasn't felt this way at one time or another? Most of what the world calls living is nothing but window dressing. A songwriter describes the way people live today as, "sliding over the surface."

Most of the time, life doesn't unfold in a neat, orderly fashion. It is chaotic. It doesn't follow the script we write. So what does it take to live hopeful, coherent lives in a chaotic, superficial world? FAITH. By faith, I don't mean, "having all the answers." Faith is living without answers. In the eleventh chapter of Hebrews it says, "Faith is the substance of things hoped for; the conviction of things not seen." Faith won't let us stay put. Faith moves us toward something.

Someone defined faith as, "homesickness." The hunger for home is universal. Home is the place we are most ourselves. Home is the place we feel safe . Home is the place we are loved, unconditionally. Home is where the risen Christ goes with us so we can know the joy of life. Home is the promise of a place beyond imagining that has been prepared for us-our eternal home.

As I said, poets should speak on Easter instead of preachers. This is why I've decided to send you on your way home with a poetic parable that conveys the meaning of the miracle we celebrate.

It was raining in the forest. It had been raining for days, and all the birds and animals were drenched. The eagle, too, was drenched, and his spirits dampened as well, for his mate lay with a chill, a victim of the constant rain. There was no way to keep her dry, and the eagle looked on with despair as her life slowly drained away. His tears mingled with the rain when she died.

It was raining in the forest. The eagle couldn't stand the rain. It brought back memories too painful for him to bear. He rose up from the trees, hoeing in flight to escape his thoughts. Higher and higher he climbed until finally he broke through the dark clouds into the dazzling sunlight that lay beyond. As the warm sun dried his wings, he suddenly realized that the healing sun had been there all the time his mate had needed it. The pain of knowledge learned too late was more than he could stand, and there were tears for the sun to dry.

It was raining in the forest. It had been raining for days, and all the birds and animals were drenched. The rabbit, too, was drenched, and her spirits dampened as well, for her child lay with a chill, a victim of the constant rain. She poured out her sad tale to all who would listen, but all the other creatures, too, were victims of the rain and none could help.

An eagle happened by, and the rabbit began to tell her tale to him. But she had barely started speaking when the eagle suddenly lifted the rabbit's dying child onto his wings and began to circle quickly up into the dark and stormy clouds on an errand he did not take time to explain.

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