Sunday, March 31, 2013
1.
If you’ve ever been in that boat with
Peter—nursing a hundred sorrows, regretting choices you’ve made or
opportunities you passed on, catching no fish whatsoever—if you’ve ever been in
that sad little skiff with Peter, you know.
Daybreak seems sometimes like a sad, sick joke. The sun shines on the same sorry mistakes you
grieved the day before and the day before that.
There’s that hangover that mocks your every move, and every little wave
the sea throws your way. If you’ve been
in that boat, you know.
But there’s a figure on the beach now,
and he calls to Peter, to his friends.
And his voice is encouragement, not judgment. It’s compassion, not derision. And he calls to them, “Cast your net to the other
side of the boat; you’ll find some fish biting over there.” And suddenly they’re straining against the
net so full now of fish; and suddenly they’re laughing and howling and wailing
with delight. You know, the way we
do. When we’ve given up on joy, and joy
finds us anyway. The way we do. When everything seems irredeemably broken,
and then something happens, something like healing, something like grace. They’re straining against the net. And they’re wailing with delight. And one of them points to the shore and
shouts to Peter: “It’s the Lord! It’s
the Lord!” he cries. “Look, Peter! It’s Jesus.
On the beach.”
And, you know, the proverb really
does get it right. One joy shatters a
hundred sorrows. The way the pope did
when he washed the feet of a Muslim woman this week. The way Handel did when he first composed his
Hallelujah Chorus. The way a newborn
fits in the crook of your elbow just right, the very first time you hold
her. One joy shatters a hundred sorrows. “It’s the Lord,” one of them says to
Peter. “It’s the Lord! It’s the Lord! It’s the Lord!”
So Peter does what any decent,
grateful, god-fearing fisherman would do.
At least, any decent, grateful, god-fearing fisherman who’s been fishing
all night in the buff. He throws on his
clothes and he jumps right in. Big jump,
all kinds of noise, water everywhere, and arms and feet. And Peter’s gone.
2.
So let’s dare, right here and now, to name the
promise this Easter gospel discloses. Because
this is not only Peter’s story, not only the disciples’ story, it’s our story
too. And just like Peter, just like the
disciples, just like all the sweet saints and faithful fools of generations
past, we are made for joy. You and I are made for joy. Not just survival. Not just getting by. Not just putting in our eighty or ninety
years and getting out clean. But
joy. We are made for joy. Created for joy. Fashioned and formed for joy. And joy jumps in. Into the lake at daybreak. Into the strange vows you make in
baptism. Into the big broken world of
beauty and injustice. Into the one life,
the only life, you have to live. Joy
jumps in.
Now you may be nursing your hundred
sorrows. And your world may be a sad and
disappointing place. And right now you
may be thinking, sure, everybody else is made that way. But not me: I’ve got issues. Anybody out there like that? Not me, I’ve got issues?
But, friends, hear this today and
hear it clear. Because Jesus doesn’t rise
from the dead to love just some of us and to delight just some of us and to thrill
just some of us. No, Jesus rises from
the dead to claim each and every one of us, each and every one of you, as a
child of God. Made in the image of
God. Made for joy here on earth. Easter rings out with a thousand ALLELUIAS—not
just for some of us, but for all of us; not just for me, but for you. We are made for joy. And joy, joy jumps in.
To be spiritual is to be amazed. And Peter jumps in. And before long, he’s finishing up his
breakfast and enjoying Jesus’ company on the beach. Just like the old days. The charcoal fire works its magic, dries out
his soggy tunic. And somewhere a couple
of friends are cleaning out a hundred and fifty-three large fish. Taking care of business and shaking their
heads at their good fortune. And Jesus
does, just then, what Jesus ALWAYS does.
He asks Peter a pointed, purposeful, provocative question. “Simon, son of John,” he says, “do you LOVE
me?” And Peter answers him, without any
hesitation, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”
And then Jesus says to Peter the
three words that point us past this Easter Sunday and into another Monday and
another Tuesday and into the rest of our lives: “Feed my lambs.” You’ve heard the reading. You know this little exchange is repeated,
more or less, three times. Feed my
lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. In other words, don’t let all those fish go
to waste, Peter. Don’t let your joy get
stale, Peter. Feed my sheep. Nurture and protect my children. Honor their lives and bounce them on your
knee and wash their feet with love. Feed
my lambs, Peter. Feed my sheep.
And I want us to hear these three
words as something more than another call to action, though they’re surely
that. Feed my sheep. But I want us to hear these words, Jesus’
words, above all as a challenge to take nothing for granted, as an invitation
to radical amazement, as a call to joy and compassion in everyday life. Feed my sheep. You awakened this morning to a universe that
dazzles and delights and dances every day.
You awakened to a planet pregnant with possibility and hope. You awakened to a good earth aching to feed
her people well. Live your life with
radical amazement. Everything is
phenomenal. Everything is
incredible. So feed my sheep, Jesus says.
Take nothing for granted. You’ll look in the mirror this evening and
see the light of heaven in your eyes, YOUR eyes, and the peace of Jesus on your
lips, and the Holy Spirit hovering round.
In YOUR bathroom. Live your life
with radical amazement. Everything is
phenomenal. Everything is incredible. So feed my sheep, says Jesus. And take nothing for granted.
And what is it—to be amazed? What is it—to live with joy? Well, I think it’s something like the wild gratitude I saw in Stew Jenkins’ eyes early this morning, when we lifted him
out of the roiling surf of the Pacific, and baptized him in the name of the
Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, one God who is Mother of us
all. What is it to be amazed? What is it to live with joy? Have you looked in Stew’s eyes this morning? And it’s something like the tears running
down Deb Culmer’s cheeks Thursday evening, walking these stations of the cross
and appreciating what God’s doing right here, right now with her life. How her courage has inspired our creativity! What is it to be amazed? Have you walked these fifteen stations? Have you experienced the reverence, the
humility, the provocation of love along the way? It’s stunning.
3.
There’s
a story I love to tell about a great Zen teacher who once asked a student to
sit by a stream until he’d heard ALL that the water had to teach. So he did.
The student sat and he sat and he sat. And after days of looking, after days of
taking it all in, after days of listening to the stream, it just so happened
that a lively little monkey came along. And in one fearless leap of joy, that
little monkey dove headlong into the stream. And he splashed and he splashed
and he splashed in the water.
Well the student, the student wept with delight, and he ran off straightaway to find his teacher. Obviously this was it. This was the lesson. He got it at last. But, surprisingly, the teacher only scolded him. Not at all what the student expected. And the great teacher said, “The monkey heard. The monkey heard. But you, you just listened."
Now if you’ve never before made that leap, if you’re not one given to jumping,
if you’ve never before invited God to inspire and arouse, it can seem a little scary.
Or maybe even silly. And maybe that’s
what held the serious student back. Maybe
he didn’t want to look silly. Maybe he didn’t want to get wet. But I wonder if the teacher’s saying to the
student, you can wait on banks of that stream, you can watch the monkeys diving
and the fish jumping, you can wait. But
the time's going to come. The time's going to come--when YOU’VE got to jump.
The only way to know that stream, to feel that stream, to TASTE its joy, is to
jump.
Well the student, the student wept with delight, and he ran off straightaway to find his teacher. Obviously this was it. This was the lesson. He got it at last. But, surprisingly, the teacher only scolded him. Not at all what the student expected. And the great teacher said, “The monkey heard. The monkey heard. But you, you just listened."
4.
So friends, the word today, the Easter word today is COURAGE.
You see, the time has come; it has most certainly come. The time has come for YOU to jump. Jump into the beautiful, broken world, the world of rivers and redwoods, and love it, love this world with everything you are and everything you have. Jump into the sixty-minute hours of your life and watch life unfold with radical amazement and irrepressible gratitude. The time has come, you see, to JUMP. Jump into the feeding, sheltering, caring ministry of the church--or the organizing, advocating, agitating ministry of the church--and bear witness to Jesus’ passion for justice. The time has come. The time has come for you--to JUMP into EVERY hymn and EVERY prayer and EVERY breath--because every moment is phenomenal and incredible. And God’s gift.
You see, you are MADE for joy. Not just for survival. Not just getting by. But joy. And joy, my friends, jumps in. Always, always, joy jumps in.
Amen.
