Easter 2

Readings: Acts 4:32-35; 1 John 5:1-6; John 20:19-31

The risen Jesus seems to show a marked preference
for sinners and skeptics.
At least, as we see in today’s Gospel reading, 
it is to such as these that he in his mercy
entrusts the tasks of forgiveness and faith.

First, the sinners.
It is perhaps understandable that the fickle crowd
who had hailed Jesus upon his arrival in Jerusalem
would quickly turn against him and called for his crucifixion.
The disciples of Jesus, however, had been with him for a long time:
they had heard his teachings and seen his miracles;
they had made the journey with him from Galilee to Jerusalem;
he had called each by name 
and given them the joyful task of witnessing to God’s rein.
But by abandoning him in his moment of greatest need,
they committed the sin for which the poet Dante 
reserved the deepest circle of Hell: 
they had betrayed their benefactor.
And in the aftermath of their betrayal 
they now cower in hiding, behind locked doors,
And yet it is to these cowardly sinners that Jesus 
comes and speaks the words “Peace be with you”
and to whom he entrusts
the power of the judgment and forgiveness of sins:
“Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them,
and whose sins you retain are retained.”

Then, the skeptic.
Thomas the doubter
was perhaps by nature one of those people
who suspects that if something seems
too good to be true
then it probably is false.
 He was one who would not believe the testimony 
of even his closest companions,
who would not believe unless he was given 
concrete—literally tangible—proof.
And yet it is to this skeptical doubter
that Christ appears and bids him to believe
and gives to him the grace to utter 
the New Testament’s boldest confession 
of faith in Jesus Christ,
the words that state most plainly 
the mystery present in the person of Jesus:
“My Lord and my God!”

Sinners and skeptics.
They may seem like odd choices
to become vessels of forgiveness and faith.
But in the upside-down world 
inaugurated by Christ’s resurrection
this is precisely what they become.
And it is in fact only fitting once we grasp 
the revolutionary mercy of God
revealed in Jesus’ resurrection.

Who better than this frightened band of betrayers
to be entrusted with the ministry of reconciliation?
Who but a sinner knows how deeply we suffer from sin,
and how desperately we need forgiveness?
Who but one who knows from within
the evasions and self-deceptions we employ
to excuse our sins
would know how to apply, 
with both mercy and rigor,
the just judgment of God upon the sinner?
Who but one who has committed the worst betrayal,
and yet still hears from Jesus the words “Peace be with you,”
would know how deep into the hell of sin God’s mercy can reach?

And who better than Thomas the skeptic
to be entrusted with the confession 
“my Lord and my God”?
Who but one whose restless mind 
will not rest content with simple answers
could receive the grace to press beyond 
the joyful moment of encounter with the risen Jesus 
to see what is unseeable,
and to speak something as mysterious and hidden
as the presence of the invisible God 
in the human flesh of Jesus?
Who but one who has doubted 
knows the time it can take to come to faith,
so as to bear with patience the doubts of others?
Who but one who in their doubt keeps seeking Jesus
can know that even amidst our doubts
the seeds of faith planted by grace can still live?

We hear in the First Letter of John,
“the victory that conquers the world is our faith.”
This statement might sound to our ears
like a triumphalist affirmation
that faith allows us to trample underfoot
the enemies of God, 
that faith is a weapon in the arsenal
of those who are strong and destined for success.
It is a phrase that might bring to our mind’s eye 
images Christians striding confidently 
through the halls of power
and passing judgement upon all 
who succumb to sin and skepticism.
 
But what if faith’s conquest of the world
looks not like the successful
going from strength to strength,
but like the sinful and the skeptical
grasped by the crucified and risen God?
What if it looks not like those 
who wield God’s word as a weapon,
but like people being reborn 
through the blood and water pouring forth 
from the pierced side of the crucified Christ?
What if it is mercy’s conquest won through suffering?
What if it is Easter?

According to the logic of Easter 

it makes sense
that the victory of forgiveness and faith
would be made manifest 
in the sinful and the skeptical.
And this is the great hope Easter offers us.
For all of us are, let’s be honest,
sinful and skeptical—at least some of the time.
All of us know ourselves to have abandoned Christ—
at least some of the time.
All of us know ourselves to have doubted Christ—
at least some of the time.
So Easter is for us.
Easter is the great feast of God’s mercy,
the great feast of forgiveness and faith,
spread before us sinners and skeptics.
Easter is the invitation, 
“come and eat, for all is prepared.”
And blessed are we who are called 
to the supper of the Lamb. 

Easter 2

Readings: Acts 4:32-34; 1 John 5:1-6; John 20:19-31

“Jesus came and stood in their midst
and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’”
Did he say, “Peace be with you”
because he knew that,
when they saw him standing among them,
still bearing the marks of torture and betrayal,
they might have thought
that he had come for retribution?
After all, they had each betrayed him
to one degree or another.
Maybe they had not sold him out for cash, like Judas,
or denied him with their lips, like Peter,
but they had all fled,
they had all abandoned him to his fate.

The light and the joy of Easter day
can sometimes lead us to forget
that the disciples to whom Jesus appeared
in that upper room
were not a faithful remnant,
devoutly waiting for God to raise him up.
They were, in fact, an unfaithful remnant,
those who had failed him,
failed the one who had offered them
nothing less than God’s kingdom.
Was their sin not worse than that
of the political and religious leaders
who play so prominent a role
in the passion narratives,
but who cared little about Jesus,
seeing him only as a pawn
to be played in some larger game?
What was thoughtless disregard
and casual cruelty
in comparison with
the knowing abandonment of Jesus
by those who claimed to love him?

I sometimes wonder if the disciples
in that upper room on that Easter evening
remembered Jesus’s enigmatic words
about rising on the third day,
or pondered the mysterious message
of the women about the empty tomb,
and devoutly hoped that none of it was true.
For if Jesus was risen,
would he not return to demand
an eye for an eye,
and a tooth for a tooth?

But he stands before them and says,
“Peace be with you.”
Peace, not payback.
And we are told,
“the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.”
They rejoiced, not simply because he had returned,
but because the first words he had spoken to them
were not “How could you?”
or “How dare you?”
or “you owe me,”
but “peace be with you.”
They rejoiced because,
even though he still bore the wounds of his betrayal,
he spoke the word “peace.”
They rejoiced because the miracle of Easter
was not simply that Jesus had returned to life
but that he offered forgiveness and peace
to this unfaithful remnant.
Had he returned for retribution,
then the kingdom of God
would still have lain dead in the tomb;
for the defeat of death through resurrection
is always also the defeat of sin through forgiveness.

And then Jesus breathed forth upon them the Holy Spirit,
and drew them into this miracle,
drew them into his resurrection,
drew them into the new life of forgiveness.
He said, “Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them,
and whose sins you retain are retained.”
Those who had received new life through Jesus
were now entrusted with his ministry of reconciliation.
And we too, to whom the risen Jesus
still speaks his word of peace:
if we are to be people of the resurrection,
then we must be people of forgiveness,
people of mercy;
we too must speak his word of peace.
When we offer peace to each other at Mass,
just before we come forward
to receive the risen Christ in the Eucharist,
we are not simply taking a moment
to engage in idle chatter or superficial friendliness.
Rather, we are enacting resurrection.
We are engaged in the awe-filled task
of letting the Spirit speak through us
the very words of the risen Christ:
“Peace be with you.”

Of course, there are plenty of people
who will tell you that mercy is for suckers,
for the weak,
for doormats.
These people make up
what our second reading calls “the world.”
The world says that people must be held accountable
so that the scales of justice can be balanced.
The world says that you will never have peace
until you have exacted the vengeance that is your due.
The world says that if you forgive people
they will only betray you again.
The world will tell you that Jesus Christ is not risen,
that mercy has not blossomed forth from his tomb,
that he has not shown his wounds to his betrayers
and said “peace be with you.”
But Saint John tells us,
“the victory that conquers the world is our faith.”
To believe that Jesus is risen from the dead
is to believe that forgiveness is possible,
that mercy cannot be held
within the tomb of hurt and hatred.
We may still bear the wounds of betrayal,
but we also bear the risen life of Jesus
that is ours through the Spirit,
into which we have been baptized.
This risen life courses through us
and breaks through the confines
of what the world thinks is possible,
creating a new world of new possibilities:
the possibility of forgiveness,
the possibility of mercy,
the possibility of peace.
“Peace be with you.”

Easter 2

Readings: Acts 4:32-35; 1 John 5:1-6; John 20:19-31

We hear in our second reading today,
from the First Letter of John,
that anyone who truly has faith
that Jesus is God’s Son
not only believes, but also loves.
And he or she loves not only God the Father,
but also the child who is begotten by God.
And the child begotten by God is not only Jesus,
who is, as the Creed says,
“born of the Father before all ages,”
but also includes all those
who have been reborn in Christ
and become children of God.

St. Augustine, in a sermon on this passage,
says that one who truly believes loves not just Jesus
but all those who are members of his body.
Augustine speaks of loving “the whole Christ”—
Jesus the head,
but also we who are his body,
his limbs, his hands and feet.
Indeed, Augustine says that
the whole Christ includes also
those who are not yet visibly
members of Christ’s body
but who are destined by God
to one day be united with him.
Claiming to love Jesus the head,
Augustine says,
while not loving our brothers and sisters
who make up Christ’s body
is like kissing someone on their lips
while stepping on their toes (Homily 10 on 1 John).
We only have true faith
if we love the whole Christ,
both the head and the members.

Then John says something
that may at first surprise and puzzle us:
“the victory that conquers the world
is our faith.”
This statement might conjure for us
troubling images
of crusaders or conquistadors
who bear the cross in one hand
and a sword in the other,
spreading Christianity around the world by force.

Perhaps it goes without saying
that I think this misunderstands
what John’s letter means
when it speaks of victory
and conquest over the world.
“The world” that faith conquers
doesn’t mean the globe,
and the world-conquest spoken of
is not a matter of seizing territory.
Rather, “the world” is John’s coded language
for all of those powers
of hatred and greed and self-seeking
that are opposed to the light and love of God
revealed in Jesus Christ.
Faith’s victory over the world
is the triumph of self-sacrificing love
over our sinful human tendency
to pursue only our own good.

Faith conquers the world
not by occupying territory
but by occupying hearts.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus,
eating his final meal with his disciples,
knowing that he is going to face death
for those he loves,
says to them,
“Have courage;
I have conquered the world” (John 16:33).
If we believe that he has conquered
through his love,
if we believe that his cross is more powerful
than any sword,
if we believe that death had
no power to hold him,
then his Spirit has taken hold of our hearts.
In our love for the whole Christ
we say “no” to the forces
of hatred and self-interest
that would seek to convince us
that self-sacrificial love
is a loser’s game.
In our love for the whole Christ
we proclaim that true victory
belongs to those who love
to the point of laying down their lives.

We catch a glimpse of this victory
in the Book of Acts’ depiction
of the earliest Christian community.
Living in the immediate afterglow of the resurrection
and the descent of the Spirit at Pentecost,
“there was no needy person among them”
because all their resources were pooled together
“and they were distributed to each according to need.”
There was no needy person among them
because self-giving love
was victorious over self-interest.
Through this faith suffused with love
for the whole Christ,
the first Christians
conquered the world.

This image of the earliest Church
may sound suspiciously socialist to some,
but it has inspired Christians
from St. Benedict to St. Francis to Dorothy Day.
And it should inspire and challenge us today.
At the very least,
it should prompt us to ask
how our own life together as a parish
might more clearly manifest
the faith that conquers the world,
might more clearly show
our love for the whole Christ,
head and members.

Maybe it begins with something as simple
as remembering each other in prayer on a daily basis,
or volunteering to teach in our faith formation program,
or even coming to our parish open house next Saturday.
These are small things,
but by God’s grace
they are the seeds of self-giving love,
the love-infused faith that we must have
if we are to be a life-filled
and life-giving Christian community,
a community in which
the risen Christ is present
saying to us
and saying through us,
“Have courage;
I have conquered the world”—
“Do not be unbelieving,
but believe.”

Easter 2

Readings: Acts 4:32-35; 1 John 5:1-6; John 20:19-31

Thomas said he wouldn’t believe
until he saw the body.
And who can blame him;
it seems, after all,
a pretty incredible story.
Thomas said he wouldn’t believe
until he touched the body of Jesus
with his own hands,
saw its wounds,
put his fingers in the nail holes,
put his hand into the wound in his side.
Thomas said he wouldn’t believe
unless there were some way
in which he could experience for himself
the concrete presence of the risen Christ.

Thomas said he would not believe it,
and who can blame him?
Why should we believe something
without at least some evidence?
Why should we believe
not only that death could not defeat Jesus,
but that his very body itself was raised to life?
If his body still lives, show it to me.

In the Gospel today,
Jesus gives Thomas what he asks for:
“he said to Thomas,
‘Put your finger here and see my hands,
and bring your hand and put it into my side,
and do not be unbelieving, but believe.’”
And Thomas responds
with one of the boldest confessions
of faith in Jesus
in the entire New Testament:
“My Lord and my God!”

So much for Thomas;
he got what he asked for.
But what about us?
Jesus said, “Blessed are those
who have not seen and have believed.”
And yet, we still want to see;
we still want something tangible
to make this incredible claim more credible.
If Jesus is truly risen, then where is his body?

“The community of believers
was of one heart and mind,
and no one claimed
that any of his possessions was his own,
but they had everything in common. . . .
There was no needy person among them.”

Among the first disciples in the city of Jerusalem
the new life of the risen Jesus was palpable
in their love for each other,
in the concrete actions that showed that love,
in their unity of heart and mind.

If Jesus is truly risen, then where is his body?
At Corpus Christi parish in Baltimore Maryland
people give many hours of their time
planning liturgies,
toiling over budgets,
preparing music,
distributing food,
taking communion to the sick and shut in.

If Jesus is truly risen, then where is his body?
At Corpus Christi parish in Baltimore Maryland
people gather to pray
for themselves and for the world;
they sing their songs of praise
to the God of life;
they initiate children and adults
into Christ’s family;
they take, bless, break and share
Christ’s Eucharistic body and blood;
they mourn with each other in sorrow
and rejoice with each other in gladness.

I do not mention these things
in order to flatter you.
We all know that we,
both as individuals and as a community,
are far from perfect,
that we often fail to be a clear sign
of the dying and rising of Christ,
that we can be as petty or ill-tempered
or lazy or selfish as anyone else.
Sometimes it takes an act of faith
to believe that we are
what our name proclaims:
Corpus Christi, the body of Christ.
But our faith tells us that by God’s grace
we are that risen body,
that in our best moments
the Spirit of truth finds a way
to bear witness through us
to the truth that Jesus Christ is truly risen,
that his body lives.
And not only in us,
but in the many members of Christ’s body
throughout the world.

Like Thomas, the world will only believe
if it can see the risen Christ for itself.
St. Thomas Aquinas said,
“nothing shows the truth of the gospel better
than the love of those who believe”
(Super Io. cap. 17 lec. 5 no. 2241).
So let us seek to love one another,
let us open our hearts to the Spirit
who can make of us that risen body,
so that the world might see,
so that the world might believe,
that Christ is truly risen.

Easter 2

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
During Lent we have been reflecting on our call as disciples —
our call to sit at the feet of Jesus
and learn from him the path that leads to true life.
We have gathered on Sundays and Wednesdays to pray and reflect
and to deepen our relationship with Christ
and the relationships we have with each other in Christ.
But today, as we move further into the Easter season,
we hear something different.
We hear not so much “come, you are called” as “go, you are sent.”
Jesus is still calling us as disciples, of course,
but having been called to be formed in our identity as disciples,
now we are called to live out our identity as disciples in the world.
Having been called, now we are sent.

But today’s Gospel calls us to notice not simply that we are sent,
but that we are sent in a specific way, after a particular pattern:
“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
In other words, we are sent by Jesus
in the same way that Jesus has been sent by his Father
into the world of human history.
But what is it about the way that Jesus has been sent by his Father,
that is reproduced in our own being sent by Jesus?

Referring to this verse, St. Gregory the Great wrote:
“The Lord is sending his chosen apostles into the world,
not to the world’s joys,
but to suffer as he himself was sent.
Therefore as the Son is loved by the Father
and yet is sent to suffer,
so also the disciples are loved by the Lord [Jesus],
who nevertheless sends them into the world to suffer” (Homily 26).

Well, how is that for raining on your Easter parade?
Here we are, still basking in our Easter joy,
and Gregory comes along to tell us
that being sent by Jesus as he has been sent by the Father
means being sent to the cross.

I remember a few years ago when Clarence Hicks was in RCIA,
he used to ask, “Did Jesus have to suffer and die on the Cross?
Was it God’s will that Jesus die?”
This is a profound question.
It pushes us to ask how it is possible that the Father who loved Jesus
could have sent him to a world in which he would have to suffer and die.
Was that the point of the whole thing?
And this is inseparable from the question of how Jesus,
who loved his disciples,
could send them out into a world
in which they would have to suffer and die.
How can one who loves us
call us to a life of discipleship that will lead to suffering?
Is suffering the whole point of discipleship?

Here we are dealing with the deep mysteries
of how the divine will plays itself out in history,
something that surpasses our comprehension,
and perhaps the best we can do
is try to come up with analogies from our own experience.
So when I ask myself,
why is it that God the Father would send Jesus into the world
knowing that he would suffer,
and why would Jesus send his disciples into the world,
knowing that they would suffer,
I think about my own children and what I hope for them.
When I ask myself, “who do I want my children to be?” I think:
I want them to be honest,
I want them to be generous,
I want them to be loving,
I want them to be people who have faith in God.
And I want them to be all of these things because I love them
and because I believe that all of these qualities
are what makes a human being truly happy.
But at the same time I know that if they are honest,
they will meet opposition;
I know that if they are generous,
people will try to take advantage of them;
I know that if they are loving,
they may well have their hearts broken;
and I know that if they are faithful to God,
they will not turn back, even in the face of suffering.
So, do I desire the suffering of my children?
I don’t think so.
What I want is for them to live truly human lives,
even though I know that in a world marked by evil
such a life will inevitably bring with it a measure of suffering.
And so my children are loved by their father,
who nevertheless sends them into the world to suffer,
yet it is not the suffering I desire,
rather I desire for them the kind of life that leads to true happiness.

I think it is something like this that is going on
with the suffering that must be endured by Jesus
and those who would be his disciples.
God does not desire that Jesus suffer,
but rather that Jesus live the sort of human life —
a life of love and faithfulness —
that is the path to true happiness.
It is the life lived, not the suffering endured, that is the point.
But in a world marked by sin, a life of love and faithfulness
will bring with it a measure of suffering,
and in the case a Jesus a suffering beyond all measure.
And so too Jesus does not desire that his disciples suffer,
but rather that their lives, like his,
would be lives of love and faithfulness.
And such a life — the life of a true disciple —
is the pearl of great price;
it is a way of life of such value
that it is worth the suffering that it might entail.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
We as disciples have been sent by Christ
on the path that he himself trod,
the path that led him to the Cross,
but not a path that ended there.
And because it did not end there,
we are sent as those who through our faith
are already victors in the struggle of life with death.
And if we believe this, if we really believe this,
then we will know that the path of Christ
that we as disciples walk
is not simply the path of suffering
but is in fact the path that leads through the empty tomb
into the very life of God.