Lectionary Poem: Radiant Love

Lectionary Poem: Radiant Love

After two weeks of metaphors,

The Good Shepherd

The True Vine,

Now we turn to plain talk,

a meditation of the heart.

Love one another, Jesus says.

Abide in my love.

Make joy complete.

Love follows commandments,

faithful love is radiant.

We plunge Phoebe into water,

evoking long-ago Phoebe,

letter carrier.

She was trusted by Paul,

a bearer of radiant love.

Radiating love on byways,

sojourning to the capital city,

hope and faith in her bag.

Presenting complex truths,

but most of all, radiant love.

Year B: The Sixth Sunday of Easter, the Baptism of Phoebe Anne Shellhammer

May 5, 2024 

Romans 16:1-2

John 15:1-8

The Place to Belong

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 28, 2024

Year B: The Fifth Sunday of Easter

Acts 8:26-40

Psalm 22:22-30

1 John 4:7-21

John 15:1-8

The Place to Belong

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

About three years ago now, after I had been called to serve as your next Rector but before Sue and I arrived here, I received an email from a parishioner who really wanted me to know that our church website was overdue for a major overhaul.

Now, I don’t want to say who that was, but I’ll give you a clue:

We’re all very sad that, soon, he and Carla will be leaving us and moving to Kansas!

So anyway, thanks to this unnamed but most determined parishioner, dealing with the website was high on my to-do list even before I got started here.

As many of you will remember, we formed a small committee – which of course included Bob – I mean, you know who – and we got to work on creating a brand-new website.

We aimed to create a beautiful and easy-to-navigate site, one that would give visitors a good sense of who we are and what we’re about and would also be useful to parishioners.

Since it’s possible that people driving by our beautiful church might wonder if they would really be welcome here, we wanted to express our hospitality, to send the message that, yes, our doors are open to absolutely everyone.

        Hospitality is definitely very important and we work hard at it, but, we shouldn't pat ourselves on the back too much. I mean, everybody is also welcome at McDonald’s and Starbucks, right?

        But here, here in church, we offer something even deeper and more meaningful than an open door.

        And so, if you look at our website, you’ll see the phrase that we came up with to describe something that is even richer than hospitality.

        We describe St. Thomas’ as:

        A place to belong. 

        A place to belong.

        I was reminded of those beautiful (and hopefully true) words a few weeks ago at our Vestry Retreat.

        Our facilitator was my friend and colleague the Rev. Arianne Rice. Until very recently, she was the Rector of Good Shepherd in Ruxton.

        At one point in the retreat, Arianne drew a distinction between “fitting in” and “belonging.”

        I’m not sure I had ever really thought about that before.

        In fact, I’ve probably used “fitting in” and “belonging” interchangeably.

        But they’re not the same.

        “Fitting in” involves conformity - suppressing our own personalities, traditions, tastes, quirks, and hopes in favor of whatever the group – whatever the majority – likes and wants.

        “Fitting in” might be summed up with a quote from the classic movie, Mean Girls:

        “On Wednesdays we wear pink.”

        But “belonging” is something much deeper and richer than “fitting in.”

        We belong when we can bring our whole selves into a community, when we are cherished for our unique gifts, for our whole selves – when we are forgiven of our failures and shortcomings - when we are loved just as we are, quirks and all – when we can wear whatever color we want on Wednesdays, or any other day.

        What a gift to find a place to belong.

        I hope – I think – St. Thomas’ is that kind of place.

        But I know that all of us branches – all of us beautiful, diverse, complicated branches – find our true place to belong, our true place to abide, with Jesus – with Jesus the True Vine.

        As you know, I’m a big fan of Baptism so, of course, I love today’s first lesson from the Acts of the Apostles, the story of the Ethiopian eunuch.

        He is such an interesting character – he’s an outsider several times over – a eunuch, and a foreigner – a eunuch and a foreigner interested in the God of Israel.

        Although he’s been given a great deal of responsibility in his country, he’s in charge of his queen’s treasury, I wonder how difficult it was for him to fit in. 

        Well, we meet the eunuch as he’s riding in his chariot on the “wilderness road” between Jerusalem and Gaza, a geographical detail that certainly carries a painful resonance today.

        The eunuch is clearly drawn to God, curious about God’s Word. There he is in his chariot, poring over the words of the Prophet Isaiah, trying to make sense of it all when suddenly the Holy Spirit sends Philip, one of the first deacons, over to him.

        And Philip proceeds to teach the eunuch how Isaiah’s words are fulfilled in and through Jesus.

And then, in my favorite moment, the eunuch spots a body of water and asks Philip a marvelous question:

“What is to prevent me from being baptized?”

        Since the correct but unspoken answer is absolutely nothing, Philip and the eunuch enter the water, the eunuch is baptized, and Philip vanishes.

        Although the Bible is silent about the rest of the eunuch’s life, there are ancient traditions that he proclaimed the Good News back home in Ethiopia, which seems exactly right to me.

        But, regardless of what he did next or what happened to him, through Baptism, this man – this outsider several times over – was grafted onto the Vine of Jesus – just as he was - grafted onto the True Vine of Jesus.

       Through his Baptism, the Ethiopian eunuch could and would abide in Jesus.

        That day on the wilderness road, thanks to Philip, the Ethiopian eunuch found a place – found the place - to belong.

        Jesus is the vine and we are the branches.

        On Friday, along with hundreds of other people, I attended Janet Harvey’s beautiful and moving funeral at the Church of the Redeemer.

        I went because, although unfortunately I only met Janet a few times, I admired her commitment to doing so much good work, her tireless efforts at building community and nurturing new life, especially in some really tough soil.

        I also went to kind of officially represent St. Thomas’ and, in some small way, offer support to Janet’s many friends here who have been grieving.

        And I also went for a personal reason.

        In the last few days, two wonderfully faithful people from two churches I previously served at have died, Carlotta and Eric.

        So, I’ve been mourning their deaths, and really feeling the distance from them and from those communities that will always mean so much to me.

        Truly, the hardest part of my job is the leave-taking.

        Actually, I guess leave-taking is the hardest part of life.

        We build close and loving relationships, we walk through joy and sorrow together, and then it’s time to go.

        Sometimes, going means leaving a church and making way for another priest to step in and walk beside the people, making their way together along the next stretch of road.

        Sometimes, going means moving to Kansas.

        Sometimes, going means stepping into God’s eternal embrace, as now Janet, Carlotta, and Eric have.

        Leave-taking is hard.

        But, through our Baptism, through loving one another as God loves us, we are grafted onto the Vine of Jesus, the vine where all of us – the Ethiopian eunuch and Philip, Bob and Carla, Janet, Carlotta, Eric, all of us, have found a place to abide.

        On the Vine of Jesus, we have found the Place to Belong, forever.

        Because...

        Alleluia! Christ is risen!

        The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

        Amen.

Lectionary Poem: Wilderness Road

Lectionary Poem: Wilderness Road

Jerusalem to Gaza,

this was a wilderness road,

wild again.

On a wilderness road,

lurking danger plots and waits,

violent death.

On a wilderness road,

strangling vines grasp hungrily,

taking goodness.

On a wilderness road,

we might discover an outcast,

puzzling scripture.

On a wilderness road,

apostles suddenly appear,

holy water.

On a wilderness road,

The Loving Vine embraces,

branches abide.

This is what I wish.

Year B: The Fifth Sunday of Easter

April 22, 2024

Acts 8:26:40

John 15:1-8

A Sheepfold of Love and Mercy

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 21, 2024

Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:5-12

Psalm 23

1 John 3:16-24

John 10:11-18

A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Today is the Fourth Sunday of Easter – yes, it is still Easter!

And every year on this day we turn our attention to a particularly beautiful and powerful image of Jesus:

Jesus the Good Shepherd.

Both the Old and New Testaments are full of shepherd and sheep imagery. Which is no surprise since the Bible is the product of a time and place when and where sheepherding was common, an important part of the economy.

So, as we heard today in the familiar words of the 23rd Psalm, sometimes God is described as a shepherd, a loving and protective shepherd of God’s people.

And lots of biblical characters were shepherds, including Abraham, Jacob, Moses, and King David.

Jesus, who was steeped in the Jewish Scriptures, uses plenty of shepherd and sheep imagery, too.

There’s the Parable of the Lost Sheep and there’s also Jesus’ vision of the Last Day, when the sheep will be separated from the goats.

And, finally, as we heard in today’s lesson from the Gospel of John, Jesus describes himself as the Good Shepherd.

And we, his followers, are his sheep – we know his voice and we are protected by him, saved from the wolves who are always on the prowl.

And, not only that, but unlike most shepherds who are just in it for the paycheck, unlike any sensible shepherd, the Good Shepherd is willing to die for his sheep, willing to die for us.

Jesus the Good Shepherd.

At this week’s Wednesday Bible Study, I confessed that this shepherd/sheep imagery is not really my favorite.

Part of the problem is that, even after almost three years of living out here “in the country,” I’m still very much a city person – concrete and asphalt, pigeons  and squirrels - that’s my world. I just haven’t had much life experience with sheep or shepherds.

But it’s not the beautiful and comforting image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd that gives me trouble.

No, I resist the image of us – of me – as sheep.

After all, maybe unfairly, sheep are not usually ranked among the most intelligent or capable of animals – they appear totally dependent on their shepherd – they are the ultimate followers – easily corralled, easily misled by shepherds who are not so good.

And so, frankly, I don’t like to think of myself – I don’t like to think of us – that way.

But the hard truth is, all too often, we are like sheep, which can and does get us into big trouble.

And that’s why we need to listen for, and follow, the Good Shepherd.

And that’s why we need to be here, here in the Sheepfold of the Good Shepherd, here in the Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

Obviously, I’m no expert on sheepfolds, but my understanding is that the sheep don’t do very much. Mostly they just stand around and chew grass, waiting to be sheared, I guess.

But the Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy is quite different.

We don’t just stand around and wait.

No, following the voice of the Good Shepherd and trusting that he will guide us and protect us, we are called to offer goodness and mercy to those here with us in the sheepfold, and to those beyond our gates.

        The author of the First Letter of John writes, “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?”

        A very pointed question, right?

        And then he adds:

        “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

        So, yes, our church is meant to be a sheepfold – a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

        And, at our best, with God’s help, that is exactly what we are.

Two examples:

 

        The other night, our Adult Confirmation and Refresher class had its last session.

        I think I can speak for everyone in the group and say that we were sorry to see our time together come to an end.

        The class was a wonderful mix of longtime, middle-time, and new parishioners, Zooming in every Tuesday evening to talk about faith and the church, learning from the book we read but really benefiting from sharing our experiences, our hopes, and our uncertainties.

         I was particularly moved to hear the newer parishioners in the group talk about the welcome they’ve received here, how everyone’s been so friendly.

In some cases, these sheep have spent a long time looking for this kind of sheepfold, and now they’ve finally found a holy place where, for a time, they can silence at least some distractions and worries, rest and pray, praise God, and serve our neighbors.

         A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

         Second example:

 

         You should know that a couple of our super-talented parishioners have been creating beautiful quilts that I bring to parishioners and others who are ill or shut in.

         So, in my office I have a little pile of beautiful and colorful quilts.

When you look at them and hold these amazing creations, you can see and feel the prayers and love woven into each stitch.

         Without exception, the recipients of the quilts have been delighted to receive them – but none more than the small group of people I visit at a nursing home, a little annex to our St. Thomas’ sheepfold.

This facility is most definitely not a place like Blakehurst or one of the other very nice retirement communities around here – no, at this place I’m sure the aides and the other workers do the best that they can but it’s rough – it’s a place for people who just can’t afford anything better, a place where joy is in short supply, and suffering and despair are all around.

         So, imagine presenting these beautiful quilts to people living – enduring - in a place like that.

         A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by to see one of the members of our little nursing home congregation – she’s a wonderfully talented artist, a kind and lovely soul, and someone totally aware of her surroundings – which, in this case, is a kind of curse.

         She wasn’t feeling well the day I stopped by. She was in bed, not really up for talking with me – but she was resting under the quilt that I had given her a few months before – the one that had little images crabs and other seashore symbols on it – reminders of her beloved home near the water – a memory of happier days.

The quilt is a testament of beauty and love – an unexpected gift that had delighted and comforted her.

         A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

You don’t need me to tell you that our world is in sorry shape, scarred by unspeakable violence in Ukraine, the Middle East, and countless other places that don’t usually make the news.

You don’t need me to tell you that our country is bitterly divided. Or, perhaps, it’s just that there are some who seek to deepen our differences into divisions, those who benefit from tearing us apart.

You don’t need me to tell you that there are bad shepherds working to mislead us – that there are wolves on the prowl.

Given the sad state of our world and our land, it’s as essential as ever that we listen for the voice of Jesus the Good Shepherd, who calls us to love and generosity and unity.

Given the sad state of our world and our land, it’s as essential as ever that, with God’s help, we continue to build here a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy – a place where all kinds of sheep are welcomed – a place where we help our brothers and sisters in need – a place where we love in truth and in action.

And when we are truly a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy, people out there – even people in the most dismal of places – can join in our joyful shout:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

 

Lectionary Poem: The Power of Good

Lectionary Poem: The Power of Good

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Good now means

not too bad, so – so, just OK

you know.

Good seems no match for bad,

hate and deceit attract,

not good.

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Good is not even the right word for

The Shepherd, right?

A “good shepherd” is adequate,

fulfills the job description.

What to call The Shepherd who loves the sheep?

Who dies for the sheep?

Mad, Holy, come to mind.

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Of course good keeps its power!

It’s just, maybe, usually, always, I’d rather decline the power

to love dumb and ordinary

to appreciate even pungency and bleating

to trust sacrifice means something

eternal.

Help me hear the Good Shepherd.

Help me be a good shepherd.

Help me see, admit, use, the Power of Good.

Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 12, 2024

John 10:11-18

The Next Suppers

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 14, 2024

Year B: The Third Sunday of Easter

Acts 3:12-19

Psalm 4

1 John 3:1-7

Luke 24:36b-48

The Next Suppers

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Yes, it is still Easter!

Oh, the world has long since moved on, of course.

Stores have run their deep discounts to get rid of all that unsold Easter candy.

And, if we had Easter candy in our house, by now it’s probably all gone. Or, maybe all that’s left is the sweets we don’t like.

By now, the Easter baskets have been put away for another year.

The world may have long since moved on, but for us, for the Church, it is still Easter!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

        Although we’re now well into the Easter Season, I’m still digesting Holy Week. And for me, one of the most moving moments of Holy Week is the Maundy Thursday service.

If you can, you really should attend next year.

On Maundy Thursday, we turn our attention to the Last Supper.

Now, the Last Supper is the most famous meal ever, right?

It’s the meal we remember and reenact every Sunday when we gather here around the Table and receive the Bread and Wine, when we take Jesus into our bodies and hearts.

The Last Supper is the most famous meal ever, but on Maundy Thursday we slow down a bit and really focus on that night, on that solemn and somber gathering in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago.

For a while, Jesus had been predicting what was going to happen to him – rejection, death, and resurrection – but the disciples hadn’t understood.

Or maybe they just didn’t want to understand.

But gathered together on that night, the hard truth was sinking in.

Jesus uses these last few precious minutes to teach some most important lessons.

Despite Peter’s initial objection, Jesus washes the feet of his friends and says that this is how it should be among them – among us - that we should serve one another – that we must love one another, as Jesus has loved us.

Jesus blesses the bread and wine and promises to be with us each time we gather around the table just like this, each time we remember him.

And Jesus promises that he is going on ahead of us to prepare a place for us – the place of reunion – where, someday, we will all be together forever.

And Jesus says that he is the way to that place.

Jesus is the Way.

At the end of the Maundy Thursday service, after we’ve received Communion, when there’s not much left to say, we “strip” the altar – we clear away all the sacred vessels and linens, the crosses and torches – leaving bare our sacred space, symbolizing Jesus’ absence.

Soon it will be finished.

Or so it will seem.

For the past two Sundays we heard the Easter story according to the Gospel of John – first, Mary Magdalene’s discovery of the empty tomb and her encounter with Jesus in the garden, and then the Apostle Thomas doubting that the disciples had actually seen the Risen Jesus.

And now today we switch to the Gospel of Luke.

And Luke gives us a couple of unique Easter stories.

The first is the story of the Risen Jesus and the two disciples on the road to Emmaus – how the two disciples didn’t know that the stranger beside them on the road was Jesus – they didn’t recognize Jesus until they gathered around the table and he blessed and broke the bread.

In that story, Jesus immediately vanishes before any food is consumed and the two disciples rush back from Emmaus to Jerusalem to share with the other disciples the news that they had seen the Lord.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Which brings us to today’s gospel lesson.

Just like it’s still Easter for us, it is still Easter – it’s still the first Easter, actually, for the frightened and confused disciples in Jerusalem.

Suddenly Jesus appears and says, “Peace be with you.”

For all sorts of understandable reasons that we talked about last week, the traumatized disciples are startled and terrified.

In a world of horrors, good news is just hard to accept – hard to believe. 

Just like we heard in John’s account last week, Jesus shows his wounds – the Risen Christ is still the same Jesus who was tortured and killed.

But, apparently because the disciples still weren’t totally sure that this really was Jesus, he asks a surprising question:

“Have you anything here to eat?”

And the Risen Christ proceeds to eat a piece of broiled fish.

The point, of course, is that Jesus is not a ghost.

Jesus is not a disembodied spirit.

The Risen Christ is still embodied.

The Risen Christ is transformed – people don’t always recognize him and locked doors are no obstacle – but the Risen Christ is still flesh, wounded and scarred - and eating broiled fish with his friends.

It turns out that the Last Supper was not the last supper.

As I’ve sat with this story this week, I’ve understood this meal – and since I can’t imagine Jesus eating alone, surely Jesus invited the others to sit down and enjoy some broiled fish, too – I’ve come to understand this meal as the “Next Supper” – the first of many Next Suppers with Jesus and his friends down through the centuries – the first of many Next Suppers, including the Next Supper that we will share here in a few minutes.

At the Next Suppers, something far better than broiled fish – something way better even than candy - is on the menu.

At the Next Suppers, we receive the Body and Blood of Christ – we receive the comfort and strength we need to go out and be Christ in our world – in our real life, flesh and blood, messed up but still beautiful, world.

At the Next Suppers, we are reminded that Jesus is the Way, the Way to the place of reunion with those who have gone on ahead of us - and the Way of Jesus is the way of loving service, the way of washing feet, the way of giving away our lives for others.

At the Next Suppers, we are reminded that suffering and death certainly do plenty of damage – we know only too well that the wounds really hurt and the scars remain – but, no matter how painful and sad life may get, suffering and death do not get the last word.

Because Jesus is alive!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Lectionary Poem: Startled and Terrified

Startled and Terrified

In a world of horrors,

even Good News startles and terrifies.

What’s the catch?

What’s the trick?

Where’s the anvil, overhanging?

Good News with wounds,

startles and terrifies.

Good News that commands us to go

out,

startles and terrifies.

Good News with wounds,

startles and terrifies.

Before we go

out,

let’s eat broiled fish.

Will it be enough?

Will we be enough,

in a world of horrors?

Year B: The Third Sunday of Easter

April 14, 2024

Luke 24:36b-48

Peace and Joy, With Wounds

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 7, 2024

Year B: The Second Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:32-25

Psalm 133

1 John 1:1-2:2

John 20:19-31

Peace and Joy, with Wounds

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

I want to begin today with gratitude – deep gratitude for the many people who worked so hard to give us a richly meaningful Holy Week and an Easter Day that was just overflowing with joy.

I’m especially grateful to our Altar Guild and Flower Guild and to Wanda and the Choir and all of our worship leaders and to our dedicated and talented church staff – and to the many of you who walked the Way of the Cross and then squeezed into church last Sunday, even if that meant you were displaced from your usual seat!

All of us had one goal for last Sunday: joy.

We used our gifts to create joy in this place – the joy of hope, the joy of new life.

You won’t be surprised to learn that, for me, the most joyful Easter moment came during the 10:00 service when I had the great privilege of baptizing Charlotte Enoch and her baby daughter Rose.

Every baptism is joyful – we all agreed about that long ago – but there is something extra joyful when an adult stands up in front of a packed church and says, yes, I want to be part of this – yes, with God’s help, I aim to follow Jesus as faithfully as I can.

There is something supremely joyful when over 300 people – some who hadn’t been here for a while – some who had never been here – together renew the baptismal promises to love our neighbor as ourselves, to seek and serve Christ in every person.

I mean, come on, what could be better than that?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

As we do every year, on Easter Morning we looked back at the first Easter Morning when Mary Magdalene discovered the empty tomb.

And, after a lot of confusion and running around, when Mary finally hears the voice of Jesus call her by name, she’s the first to know the best news of all time.

The God who is always full of life and love has replenished what was empty.

The God who is always full of life and love has turned despair into joy.

Eternal death has been defeated.

At the end of last Sunday’s gospel lesson, we heard that Mary Magdalene obeyed Jesus’ instruction and went to the others, telling them that she had seen the Lord.

We’re not told how the other disciples responded to this startling piece of news but we get a pretty good idea from the start of today’s gospel lesson, which picks up right where we left off last week.

It’s now the evening of the first Easter and the disciples have had hours to absorb, to reflect on, the news from Mary Magdalene.

Yet, it’s not a joyful or peaceful scene, is it?

Not at all.

The disciples are hiding out, as afraid, and probably as confused, as ever.

No doubt they’ve been traumatized by the events of the past couple of days, a trauma that isn’t magically erased by Mary Magdalene’s news.

The disciples are understandably worried that the authorities are coming for them next – that they’ll be the next to face wood and nails, humiliation and death.

And maybe the disciples are unsettled by the news of resurrection.

After all, most of them had abandoned Jesus in his time of suffering – and one, Peter, the so called Rock, denied even knowing him, denied him three times.

So maybe Jesus’ return doesn’t totally sound like good news to people with guilty consciences.

But then Jesus appears. 

Somehow, a locked door is no obstacle for the Risen Lord.

And what are the first words he says to his traumatized and frightened and guilty friends?

“Peace be with you.”

And then Jesus shows them his wounds – this Risen Lord who overcomes locked doors is still the same Jesus who endured wood and nails, humiliation and death.

On the first Easter, there was peace and joy, with wounds.

Of course, not everybody was in the locked room with the Risen Jesus that night.

Thomas was elsewhere.

And I always wonder why he wasn’t with the others.

I always wonder where he was and what he was doing.

We know very little about Thomas but there’s a hint elsewhere that he was a courageous man. So maybe he was willing to take the risk of going out into the city and gathering provisions for the disciples.

Maybe.

But I always imagine him out in the wilderness somewhere, brokenhearted about what had happened to Jesus – angered and disgusted by how he and the others had behaved so cowardly – and maybe dreading what was yet to come.

And so when the others tell him that they had seen the Lord, his heart is just too hardened to believe – maybe it sounded like wishful thinking – maybe it seemed like a desperate and pathetic attempt to tack on “happily ever after” to tragedy and trauma.

If I see the wounds, if I touch his wounds, Thomas says, then I’ll believe.

But to Thomas’ credit, a week later he was there in the room with the others. He showed up. His hope wasn’t fully extinguished.

And, well, you know the rest.

Jesus shows his wounds and invites Thomas to touch them.

And an overjoyed Thomas says more than he probably understood, “My Lord and my God!”

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Peace and joy, with wounds.

In the midst of our overflowing Easter joy last week, I was mindful of the fact that some of our parishioners – many of us, maybe – are suffering.

Some are mourning loved ones who have died since last Easter.

Some are grieving broken relationships and lost work.

        Some might be feeling guilty - guilty of things done or said, things not done or left unsaid.

Others are feeling fragile – worried about our own health or the wellbeing of people we love - and the shocking fall of the Key Bridge has reminded us that things – even seemingly solid and permanent things - can change in an instant.

And many of us are frightened of the future – our uncertain future in an angry and violent and depleted world.

Yet, despite our traumas – or maybe because of our traumas – we showed up, didn’t we? 

We were here, with our wounds.

Like Thomas.

        Like the Risen Christ.

Peace and joy, with wounds.

Now, if I had written the Easter story, Jesus’ wounds would have been miraculously erased.

After all, there were other ways that a woundless Jesus could have confirmed his identity to his friends.

But the wounds remain.

The wounds remain to remind us of all that Jesus endured for us.

The wounds remain to remind us that Jesus our brother suffered, just as all of us suffer.

The wounds remain to remind us that, through Jesus, God really knows what it’s like to suffer and die.

The wounds remain to remind us that suffering and death certainly do real damage but suffering and death do not get the last word.

And though, like the first disciples, we may be traumatized, frightened, and confused, all of us wounded people will keep gathering here – hoping and trusting that Jesus will keep showing up, bringing peace and joy – peace and joy, with wounds.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.