That You May Have Life

Sermon for Second Sunday of Easter / Anne Kumpuris Scholarship

St. Mark's | Little Rock, AR

John 20:19-31

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It is good to be together on this spring morning. Like a great chorus echoing our Eastertide alleluias, azaleas and cherry blossom blooms are bursting forth. New life is springing up all around us. And yet... we do not need to look very hard to also find evidence to the contrary. I am grateful for these 50 days of Easter—because we need a full 50 days of Easter.

In a world desperate for some Good News, it is especially important to proclaim resurrection. So, for these few minutes, I invite us to linger together in the joy of new life, so that it might sink deep into our bodies.

As we savor together Eastertide alleluias this morning, we uplift from our gospel lesson these words of Jesus: “Peace be with you.” “Do not doubt but believe.” Announcing and experiencing new life is the very heart of this text we have just heard. John’s Gospel describes the scene of Jesus’ first appearance to the disciples. It is a moment that cannot be neatly summarized, nor is it a simple matter of greeting a friend after a lengthy time apart.

In the wake of Jesus’ crucifixion, the disciples have gathered together—and they are terrified. Hopes for a new kind of social life have been dashed. This room is surely weighed down with grief, and by shame at having deserted Jesus at his final hour. If this weren’t enough, a fear for their own lives hangs thick in the air.

But to fully grasp this moment though, we need to take a few steps back in the story... Just before the Gospel of John gives account of the betrayal and passion of Jesus, we are told of a final gathering. In a moment of calm before the storm he knows is ahead, Jesus tells the disciples that he will be departing. They are utterly confused.

He comforts them with the promise that the Holy Spirit will be with them—through everything that is to come, no matter how difficult and uncertain it may be. And, then, he says to the disciples: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you... Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

When Jesus appears in that room after rising from the grave, he reiterates this very same peace. It is no mere greeting but an announcement. In that place where the disciples have barricaded themselves, Jesus declares that the peace of Christ is so—and that it reigns eternal above any evidence to the contrary.

And then Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit out onto them. Because, even after death, the promise of God’s sustaining love remains. Alleluia! During this season of Easter and the long Lenten journey leading up to it, I have been thinking about butterflies. Monarch butterflies, more specifically.

For those unfamiliar, the Monarch is a migratory North American butterfly. And when it opens wide its wings, it displays a dazzling orange brilliance. And I cannot stop calling this image to mind, for at least a couple different reasons.

First, I recently learned of two different studies of caterpillars.

In one, a team of researchers placed highly sensitive microphones outside a chrysalis— which is like a silky sleeping-bag where caterpillars are transformed into butterflies. The research was able to record audible sounds coming from inside this coffin-shaped place. And the noises made while moving through metamorphosis, though faint, were like moaning and crying. It is an anguishing sound.

Now, in the second study, various sensory stimuli were used to train responses in caterpillars. When an unpleasant sound or scent was introduced, the caterpillars learned to move away from it. But what they later discovered was that the butterflies showed the same response as the caterpillars.

Even on the other side of this new life they had entered into, they retained some caterpillar memory. Even after breaking free of their chrysalis, with all of their brilliant orange beauty, the writhing during metamorphosis lingered—seemingly remaining somewhere in their bodies.

Now, my father was fascinated by butterflies—which is the second reason this continues to come to mind. Most summers, we had somewhere in our home a chrysalis hanging from a branch of milkweed, and encased in a glass mason jar. Eventually, after great patience and much anticipation, we would witness a moment of transcendence unfold before us as a new butterfly emerged into the world.

Last year, in the weeks before this pandemic time, following years of living with a disease that slowly stole his memory, my father died. Memory is mysterious. Just as I have wondered how much is retained at the end of life, I have also wondered how much the moaning and writing remaining impacts the lives of those butterflies. Memory remains beyond comprehension, just as grief and trauma seems to linger illusively. Because as our gospel text suggests: even in the resurrected body of Jesus Christ, evidence of great pain remains.

New life is far-from neatly summarized, and cultivating new in sorrow’s shadow is not a simple matter. A profound grief can hang thick in the air—even in a post-resurrection reality.

And for Thomas the Disciple, this would seem to be the case. Because of his deep sorrow, and perhaps because he too was an avid butterfly enthusiast, it is the lingering wounds of Jesus which he must see in order to believe new life is indeed possible. This disciple is often referred to as “Doubting Thomas.” A narrative surrounds him—but doubt isn’t really the point. For Jesus and the Gospel of John, what is of primary concern is not the presence of doubt, but the absence of belief.

And not just merely belief for beliefs sake, either. This is far more consequential. Neither is it belief masqueraded as ego. Though Jesus’ accomplishment has cosmic implications, he is not caught up on whether Thomas sufficiently recognizes this.

What is at stake is what Thomas might miss out on if he does not enter into a reality where the peace of Christ reigns eternally—a reality where new life is called forth, even from death. Jesus does not need Thomas to believe; Thomas needs to believe.

So, rather than receiving Thomas’ pain as a denial of his own agonizing crucifixion, Jesus sees Thomas. He sees the weight of his grief, he sees the depth of love from which grief emerges, and he recognizes Thomas’ need. Jesus meets Thomas in his place of need: inviting Thomas to bear witness to his resurrected body—to the reality of new life present even in the midst of death’s lingering evidence.

This is of course far from simple. What Thomas is invited into is neither the certainty of Jesus’ death, nor the certainty of a resurrection that instantly makes all things right. Rather, Thomas is invited into faith—faith that the power of God calls forth life eternal, and that life in abundance is made possible through the sustaining power of the Spirit, even in the present. Abundant life has always been the mission of Jesus—and it is the ever unfolding story of God. Perhaps I didn’t go back in the story far enough earlier though... So, now, as I begin to conclude: Genesis 1...

The very first words of scripture begin in this way: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth... a wind from God swept over the face of the formless void.” And fast forward to the Book of Ezekiel. In a valley full of dry bones, God speaks through the prophet: “Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live... and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

Continuing this story, the Gospel of John opens with this scene: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God... All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.”

Since the very dawn of creation, God desires that we know and have life in abundance. Sweeping like wind across the abyss, the God of creation breathes and calls forth stars and seas and everything that has breath. It is within this eternal breath that we now live and move and have our being. And when God breathes, things are made new again—not even bones or a chrysalis or a tomb prevents the relentless life-giving action of God.

This is just how it has always been—and it is the belief both Thomas and we are invited into. So beloveds, walk by faith in the knowledge that neither death nor lingering wounds are the final word. Greet doubt and grief with tenderness. Choose to forgive and to love.

Abide in the breath of the Risen Christ, letting it sink deep into each and every fiber of Christ’s body, that peace might be with all people. Practice resurrection.

Do not doubt, but believe. Alleluia! Christ is Risen!