 Rev. Jeff Nelson |
Left
Behind
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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It seems much too early for Easter to be over. Easter is already two weeks old and we still have three weeks of April stretched out in front of us. The memories of relatives who traveled (or to whom we traveled) to share an Easter dinner of ham, scalloped potatoes and green bean casserole are beginning to fade. The last of the Easter eggs has been found and eaten. The jelly beans are all but gone, except for maybe a handful of black ones. It seems too early for Easter to be over. But here
we are in the aftermath of it all, and we are waiting. But
what are we waiting for?
Perhaps we are waiting for spring to break through the
hard ground. Maybe we are waiting for planting season to
begin. Maybe we have been waiting for baseball to finally get
started. Maybe we are waiting for school to be over. Or maybe,
just maybe, we are waiting to see if Easter made any
difference in us or anybody else. It seems too soon for Easter
to be over. We’ve hung the good suits back in the closet and
set the wilted lilies out on the back steps. Our Easter
celebration is all but over, and so now we wait. Easter is
kind of like that. It blows open the doors and windows of our
lives and says, “Here I am!” It is hard not to get caught
up in all the hoopla of Easter morning with trumpets sounding
and churches singing, “Christ the Lord is risen today…”
For in that moment, we all feel like it is true. In that
moment, we know that it is true. The grave did not hold him.
Death did not claim him. Yes, death had its day, but on Easter
it was denied its dominion. God did not abandon Jesus. God has
not abandoned us. “Christ the Lord has risen
today…Alleluia!” On Easter morning we all feel like new
life is not only possible, it is inevitable. And so it
feels too early for Easter to be over, because here we are,
two weeks later, and we are starting to wonder, “Was that
all a bunch of hype?” It felt so good in the moment, but
life sure got back to normal in a hurry, didn’t it? And so
here we are two weeks after Easter, and we are
waiting—waiting to see if all the hype was true, waiting to
see if, at the end of the day, all this Easter stuff will make
a difference to anybody. It
wasn’t so different in Jerusalem two millennia ago. Friday
and Saturday had passed. The first Easter Sunday had arrived,
and with the dawn came the unexpected—indeed, the
unbelievable— news that Jesus had been raised from the dead.
(It was the same word the preacher brought us two weeks ago
when the church was filled and we sat listening in our good
suits.) The disciples who gathered in the room had heard the
news but hadn’t seen anything to confirm it, so they closed
the door and locked it. And they waited. Some, no doubt,
wondered if it was time to go home, to get back to whatever
they had been doing before all this happened, to pick up the
pieces and start over. But for now, they waited, not quite
sure what they were waiting for. We know
the story. Their waiting paid off. Without knocking or
unlocking the door, Jesus appeared in their midst, saying,
“Peace be with you.” For about a month after this, Jesus
would keep showing up. There was breakfast on the beach with
Peter. There was that long walk to Emmaus. Some reports say
that 500 or more saw Jesus in weeks after Easter. Isn’t
that what we hope will happen to us? After the news on Easter
morning, we hope to find this Jesus hanging out in our midst.
We hope to see him. To touch him. To have breakfast with him.
But here we are, two weeks after Easter, and we are waiting
for Jesus to show up. But
just when the disciples thought they had this all figured
out—just when they figured they got what they were waiting
for—Jesus took off. Literally. The scripture tells us that
Jesus took off, blasted off straight up into the clouds. Once
again he was gone, and once again the disciples were left
behind. Jesus was gone once again. “I’m gone and you’re
it!” And that is where the church has had to live now for
two thousand years. Those of us who claim the Christian
tradition as our own now find ourselves living as those left
behind. The disciples of Jesus, both then and now, have to
figure out what to do and how to live since Jesus left them
(and us) behind. Left
behind. At one time or another, we have all felt left behind.
We feel like the crowd left without us. Or a loved one left
without considering us. There are times we feel as if God
left… took off…vacated the premises…moved on to bigger
and better things. There are times we simply feel left
behind—standing alone wondering when the parade passed us
by, or sitting in church two weeks after Easter wondering why,
if Jesus truly has been raised from the dead, we are still
feeling so unsure or uninspired. When we find ourselves
feeling left behind, we find ourselves in a place a lot like
the disciples in our story this evening. The
disciples think Jesus is going to stick around. And they are
sure that with him around, things will get back to the way it
was before. With Jesus back around, they are starting to feel
as if the way things have been is the way things will always
be. They ask, “Lord, has the time come to restore the
kingdom of Israel? Now that you’re back, Jesus, isn’t it
time to restore things to their proper place?” “Restore
things, Jesus.” “Let’s get things back to the good old
days, back to when we called all the shots.” Isn’t
that how we treat Jesus sometimes? Restore things, Jesus.
Minimize the changes. Smooth out the rough places. No
bumps in the road. Nothing unpredictable, if you please. Now
that you’re back, Jesus, restore things to the way we want
them to be. And what happens when Jesus doesn’t appear and
make things all nice and restored? Well, we oftentimes wonder
if he ever was raised at all. And if he was, well then, he
hasn’t appeared and we’ve been left behind. But not
only do we want life restored to the smooth and predicable, we
want Jesus to be restored to the smooth and predictable as
well. We want a Jesus who is restored to easily understood
ideas and slogans so he will fit nicely on the bumpers of our
cars. Get Jesus defined and confined so we get a handle on
him. Boil Jesus down to the essentials you know—into proofs
and propositions, into tracts and proofs texts. One sure way
of making certain that Jesus would never leave them again was
to get him to fit inside their box, nicely packaged inside a
definitive set of beliefs and rituals. “Restore Israel,
Jesus! Be our, and only our, National Hero. Be our king.
Champion our causes and our ideology. Get inside our box, and
stay there this time! We
will bring you out for big holidays, Jesus, but otherwise
let’s keep you right here, under close watch, so we’ll
never be left behind again.” But just
as the disciples opened their theological holding pen, Jesus
was gone. Just like that.
Disappeared up into the clouds. “You have not got a
hold of me yet!” And we have not fully since. The disciples
are left once again to figure out what to do and how to live
in his absence. And
the scriptures tell us that as Jesus disappeared up into the
clouds, all the disciples could do was stand there and stare
at the sky. I love that scene. Can’t you just imagine it?
There they are, standing there. Their mouths open. Their eyes
wide. Standing and staring at the place where Jesus had just
disappeared. I love
that scene because I think it gets it so right. All the
disciples can do is stare at the place of their loss. They
stand fixated on the place where everything seemed to fall
apart, on the place where all of their hopes and dreams seemed
to float away. They cannot take their focus off the place where all that
they had come to know, understand and count on simply
disappeared. All they could do was stare off into space and
feel as if they had been left behind. They could not even
think of anything to say. All they could do was stare up at
the sky as if they expected the answers to all their unasked
questions to suddenly come streaming down. Isn’t
that the way it goes? When we experience loss, especially the
loss of someone significant, we feel abandoned and left
behind. Isn’t it true that oftentimes when such a loss
enters our lives, we feel stuck in that moment and we cannot
get our eyes unfixed on the place of loss in our lives.
Sometimes people and families never move past those
moments of deep loss. They spend years transfixed on that
moment, starring off into space, caught up in that terrible
sensation of being left behind. On
June 3, 1998, my dad, brother, Bridget and I watched as my
mother lost her brief fight with leukemia. On that evening, we
stood transfixed as the unbelievable happened. At age 51, my
mother was gone, and it seemed like she just disappeared into
the clouds. We were left behind.
Left behind to try to figure out what to do and how to
live without her presence in our lives. Truth be told, we were
just like the disciples. All we could do was stare. Stare at
each other. Stare at the doctors and nurses as they offered
their condolences. Stare at the minister as he said a prayer.
Stare at the bed where her now-lifeless body lay. We were
stuck in that moment of loss. We were left behind. People
would say things like, “Don’t worry, life goes on.”
Yeah, I suppose it does. But it just didn’t seem to go on
for me, for us. I did not know how long we would be left to
stand there staring up at the sky, unsure of what to say,
unable to move away from that place of loss, from that place
of pain. We have
all been stuck in those left-behind moments. Times when words
were few. Times we were numbed by the loss. Times when all we
could do was stare off into space, looking for answers to
unasked questions. We have all had these moments. Maybe they
have been those moments when a parent, grandparent, spouse,
partner or friend has died. What will life be like without
them? Maybe it
comes when jobs are lost or savings suddenly dry up. What we
do now that we have to go without? I imagine
that many of our Catholic brothers and sisters are finding
themselves staring off into the clouds as they mourn the loss
of their leader. What will the church be like without him,
they wonder? I know
that when Don Stromberg told me that he needed to move on to
something else in his career, I was frozen, unsure of what to
say, uncertain what we would do. What would our ministry be
like without him? I think of
the over 1,200 American families who have lost a son or
daughter in the war in Iraq. I imagine many of them are so
grief stricken, feeling left behind to deal with all of the
pain and memories of what could have been. Where will life
ever go without them? And when
those twin towers fell from the sky that fateful September
morning, I know all that many of us could do was stare in
shock and disbelief. What would life be like for those left
behind to dig through the rubble? What are
we to do when it feels like life has left us behind? What are
we to do when we are caught staring up into space? Our
scripture gives us some insight into these kinds of moments.
The story tells us that as the disciples stood
transfixed in their loss and staring up into space, suddenly
two men dressed in white appeared and said to them, “Men of
Galilee, why do you stand here looking up into the sky? This
same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come
in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.” “Why are
you looking into the sky? The answers to your questions are
not to be found in the frozen moment of your loss. This Jesus
who has left will come back.” Wise words to all of us when
we are feeling left behind. The answer is not here. Being
stuck in our pain and isolation is not going to make our loved
ones come back. Staring forever in disbelief, remaining
forever focused on the place of loss, will not make the job
come back or the cancer go away. Staring in disbelief at the
television as the war rages on, paralyzed by feelings that
there is nothing we can do to end the violence, will not bring
the peace we so badly desire. Not even Jesus will come back if
we just stand around and stare up into the sky, awaiting his
return. If we were
to read on in Acts, we would find out that the disciples
heeded the words of these angelic messengers. The disciples
stopped staring up at the sky—stopped being solely focused
on who they had lost, on what had disappeared—and they began
the long walk back to Jerusalem. They had to return to their
lives. They had to reenter the world. They had to return to
Jerusalem. They had to get back to their day-to-day lives.
After leaving the place of their loss— no longer resigning
themselves to a life of blank stares—these people Jesus left
behind suddenly realized that Jesus left behind something for
them. Jesus had left them with each other—a community of
faith, hope and love. Jesus had left behind for them a new way
of living—living with love and generosity at the center of
their life in the world. He reminded them that every time they
gathered together at the table and broke bread, they would be
remembering him, and he would be present at the table with
them. And soon those left-behind disciples would realize the
greatest gift Jesus had left behind—Jesus had left his very
spirit. Soon these frightened and confused disciples would be
ablaze with the Holy Spirit, a gift Jesus said when he left it
behind, greater things would they be able to do than he ever
could. Jesus left behind his very spirit, and it is that same
Holy Spirit that still takes trembling and shaking people who
gaze up at the sky looking for answers and makes the promise
of Easter, the promise of new life, an everyday possibility. Today’s
text is a reminder that the Holy Spirit Jesus left behind is
still at work in the world and in the church, and is making
all manner of impossible things possible—things a good deal
more mystifying than Jesus rising into the air. Things like
the woman who knew she couldn’t face it when her husband
became critically and terminally ill, who woke each morning
for months wanting to fall apart and disappear. But she
didn’t. She survived and met what came each day. And not
only that, when she looks back, she knows she didn’t do it
alone, because facing her husband’s death was not something
she could possibly have done. By the power of the Spirit of
God, a man who had been addicted to alcohol for more than half
his years stopped drinking and stayed sober. And when peopled
asked him how he did it, the first thing he says is that he
didn’t. When we
can move our focus off of being left behind, we too will
realize all that Jesus has left behind for us. His church. His
people. His word. His spirit. In the years since my mother’s passing, I realized all that she left behind for my father, brother and me. I soon began to realize that her spirit was present with us. She, too, had left behind her spirit. And her presence is still with us in soft, subtle and surprising ways. By slowly moving away from the place of our grief, we suddenly began to see all that we had been left—we had each other, we had our faith, we had our health, and we had our memories of her. So my
friends, here we are two weeks after Easter, and it is time to
stop staring up at the sky. It is time to get our heads out of
the clouds. It is time to realize that even though we may have
been left behind, we have not been left empty handed! Note: I am indebted to Barbara K. Lunblad’s sermon, “Touching the Wounds,” in her book, Transforming the Stone, for some of the opening thoughts on the malaise sometimes experienced in the weeks after Easter. Lunblad is the Associate Professor of Preaching at Union Theological Seminary in New York City.
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