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Creekside Church
Sermon of April
6, 2008
"In
The Beginning"
Luke
24:13-35
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Rev.
David Bibbee
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In our end
is our beginning;
In our time, infinity;
In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity
In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
--Natalie Sleeth
I remember the
first time our congregation sang this hymn in 1992. We had just
received the blue Hymnal. It was long overdue. The Church of the
Brethren had not published one since 1951, and Jan Berkebile couldn't
contain her delight at leading congregational singing from a brand
new hymnal.
The Sunday morning
we cracked the Hymnal open the first time, several men were conscripted
to dress like sunflowers, complete with yellow petals encircling
their faces. They stooped to the floor, and as we sang, "In
the bulb there is a flower; in the seed an apple tree,"
shoots from our "manly" bulbs pierced the soil, stretched
to the sky, and their buds bloomed into glorious flowers.
It was one of
the silliest things I'd ever seen in worship. To me, it almost turned
#614 into a novelty song. Fortunately, the novelty did not last
long. The more we sang it and the more I meditated upon it, the
more I fell in love with it. Natalie Sleeth's beautifully simple
imagery reveals a key aspect of God's being. God loves surprises.
God delights in turning our perceptions and expectations inside
out. God coaxes creation out of chaos. God coaxes purpose out of
pointlessness. God coaxes hope out of hopelessness. God coaxes the
warm, green spring from the cold, bleak winter.
Ends are not
ends -- not with God in the equation. God's first and last Word
is life.
In
our end is our beginning; in our time infinity…
In our death, a resurrection; and at last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
On the first
Easter, God rewrote the script to the drama of life and death. The
end wasn't the end. For God, the end is a prelude. Beyond it
is something we cannot grasp. The Apostle Paul said we see, "in
a mirror dimly. Now we only know things in part, but one day
we will know fully (1 Corinthians 13:12)." For now, flesh-wrapped
in our mortal, finite being, the best we can do is "hint"
at it.
It was Easter
afternoon. Cleopas and another disciple of Jesus were leaving Jerusalem.
They were walking on a road that led to a village called Emmaus.
There is nothing significant about it. Emmasus doesn't have to be
a place. Emmaus is anywhere you go and anything you do to forget.
Emmaus is where you go to get your mind off your heartache and on
to something else. Emmaus is where you go to numb your feelings
and erase memories. .
Two disciples
were leaving Jerusalem and were glad of it. It was there that their
dreams died on a cross. Jesus had given them hope. He convinced
them that life had a purpose. He was strong enough for them to lean
on. He was their north star. He told them that Caesar did not rule
the world. God created it. God owned it. God ruled it-- past, present
and future, and Jesus prepared the way for God's Kingdom to come.
Then it caved in. In no time at all, it just caved in - everything
-- every hope, every purpose, and every plan, gone.
Cleopas and
his companion were walking, talking, questioning, and wondering
what they would do, now that life as they knew it had ended. Then,
a stranger joined them. He was a curious fellow. He asked a lot
of questions. "What were you talking about?" There was
only one thing to talk about. "What planet are you from?"
Cleopas asked. "You don't know the things that happened in
Jerusalem?" "What things?" the stranger asked.
They told the
whole story. And they added a postscript to its terrible ending.
"We hoped he was the one to redeem Israel." They hoped.
Past tense. It was all over.
The stranger
didn't like the end of their story. He quizzed them. "Do you
believe what the prophets said? Wasn't it necessary for the Messiah
to suffer to enter his glory?" Nearing their destination, the
disciples asked the stranger to please stay with them. He accepted
their hospitality. They sat down to eat. He broke the bread and
gave it to them, and then they knew. There was a flash of recognition,
and in a flash Jesus was gone.
Jesus was there
one moment, and gone the next. Now you see him. Now you don't. But
it was enough for them to know they were in the presence of their
true love. Their hearts pounded. Their chests burned.
Have you had
the experience of being in a large crowd and catching a glimpse
of a person who looked like a deceased loved one? You see them for
just a moment, then they disappear into a sea of faces. You knew
it couldn't be so, but no one told your heart as it pounded in your
burning chest. For a fleeting moment you felt the presence of a
long lost love. It was enough to make you wonder.
It was like
that when Jesus came back. Mary didn't recognize him at the tomb.
Peter didn't recognize Jesus when he met him on the shore. Two disciples
didn't know the traveler who walked with them. And once they knew,
he was gone.
Someone considered
what life might be like lived backwards. He said: "We
should die first and be born last. Life is tough. It takes up a
lot of your time, and your weekends, and what do you get in the
end of it?
The life cycle
is all backwards. You should die first; get it out of the way. Then
you live twenty years in an old age home. You get kicked out when
you are too young. You get a gold watch; you go to work. You work
forty years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.
You go to college and have a good time until you're ready for high
school; you go to grade school; you become a little kid; you play.
You have no responsibilities. You become a little baby; you go back
into the womb; you spend your last nine months floating; and you
finish up as a gleam in somebody's eye." It's interesting,
but God prefers forward over backward.
Did your kids
ever ask you, "Daddy, where was I before I was born?"
Great question. Tough to answer. "You were a gleam in God's
eye," you tell them. "God knew you before you were born."
"You came from God." "Ask me an easier question."
To this day my son says he remembers being born. Before that he's
not so sure.
How far back
can you remember? You were conceived in the mind of God.
Then you were conceived when the seed met the egg. You floated in
the amniotic security of the womb for nine months until the walls
constricted and you were pushed into another world. It was the start
of lots of pushing. Everything was done for you. Then you were pushed
to do things on your own. Feed yourself. Clothe yourself. Bath yourself.
Behave yourself. You were pushed from home into school where strangers
told you what to do. "Stand in line." "Keep your
hands to yourself." "Follow the rules." "Do
your own work." They push you into middle school and high school
and told you to decide what you were going to do with your life
after you got the diploma. "Life is tough, so get used to it,"
they tell you.
Then you're
expected to push yourself. Get into a good college. Get connected.
Get a job. Get married. Have a family. Buy a house. Push your kids
off to school. You loose track of where you're going until you reach
the top of the hill, then you start your descent. A gray hair here
and there. A few more pounds. Mysterious aches and pains. You realize
that if you haven't achieved your goals by this time, you never
will. Your grandchildren grow like weeds. Time speeds up. Someone
suggests retirement. Time to put work aside and let another generation
have their turn. "What am I going to do now?"
You can't see
the way you used to. Those mysterious pains are your constant companions
now. The slightest exertion requires taking a breather. You can't
do the things the way you did before. The achievements by which
you measured your worth are long gone. You forget names and what
you were going to do next. There are pill bottles everywhere you
look.
It isn't long
before more things are done for you than you can do for yourself.
All the things you've acquired over the years are given away, starting
with the car keys. Your days and nights are all mixed up. You wake
and don't know where you are. Now the pushing feels like pulling.
You don't have a say about where you're going. Your old friends
are few, because most of them have gone. You don't have the strength
or desire to get out of bed. You curl up in a ball. You hear reassuring
voices. "Don't be afraid," they tell you. The light fades
and its total darkness, and it all seems strangely familiar.
The walls constrict; the pulling is getting stronger. You wonder
if this is it. Am I over? Am I six feet under?
Then you see
light shining beneath a door at the end of a hall. You open it and
you're bathed in brilliance. You stand before the One who thought
you up. Just look at you. You've got shining new clothes. All the
scars and wrinkles are gone. You can't recall what pain was like.
The guilt and regret and the shards from a heart broken many times
over are no more. It's not the end you've been drawn to. There are
no ends, only beginnings. The gift of a loving, saving God who says,
"Welcome home."
We owe it all
to Easter. The disciples had a common desire. They wanted Jesus
to stay. He told them he couldn't do that. He was going on ahead
of them. He was headed for the Father. He said he would be with
them in other ways until they met again. They wanted him to stay.
Jesus told them to follow him, despite all the hardship along the
way. He told them that with God, ends are birthing centers for new
beginnings.
In
our end is our beginning;
In our time, infinity;
In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity
In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
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