I Believe
April 8, 2007
Luke 24:1-12
The tomb was empty. It was empty. The body was gone. The women went to care for the body, they were the ancient embalmers, and there was nothing to embalm. The body was gone. It’s actually not that big of a deal, to find an empty tomb. Animals could have taken the body. Soldiers could have taken the body. Devoted followers could have taken the body. Someone from the Council could have taken the body. Any number of people have cause and reason to have taken the body. An empty tomb really means nothing for our faith, except, the body was no longer there, the thing was empty. An empty tomb is not a persuasive argument for resurrection. It’s not something that can be finitely proven. Most matters of faith are not things that can be proven. No matter how good an argument is or is not, it does not inspire us to have any more or less faith. Faith is not a head excersize. Faith is something that lives within. It is alive, it is something we live, it is something that grows, becomes, evolves within us cocreating our living within it. Faith is not something that is equivalent to an empty grave. Faith is something that rests within each of us. We know the story of Jesus the man, going to the cross. We think that he was born, lived, died, and then we, as Christians proclaim he was born again. He was resurrected from the dead. And, this proclamation, this new part of the story, isn’t something you can understand, it solely rests within the experiences of the believers. And, it’s not even the believers of that time, it rests within the stories of our lives, this experience of the risen Christ.
This morning I share another piece of my own story, that makes me a believer. The palpable experience of walking with the risen Christ. I invite you to come along.
I come from a troubled family. My parents were both physically abusive. My father was and probably is an active alcoholic and my mother was also an active participant. Our household was chaotic, brutal, punitive and shaming. I know what it is to be looked at and despised. I have been taught how to think I’m worthless and a problem. I understand what it means to be equivalent to garbage that stinks. I was a lost child. I wanted desperately to belong, to be loved and to live. But, I just had no idea how to do it or where to find it. The world, television, my teachers everyone was committed to this tale that love comes from a family, and yet, I was pretty sure what was going on at my house was not the kind of love they meant. And, even if it was, I was looking for something different. I ached for something different.
We were an upper middle class family. My dad is a pull yourself up type who can do anything with his hands. My mom stayed at home at his insistence and took care of the house and the children. In 1983 he decided that he had made enough money, sold his plumbing business and retired. He was 43 years old. It lasted about a month and he was bored silly. So he packed us up and we moved back to the town my parents were both born in, Sturgeon Bay, WI. My Dad was from the wrong side of the tracks my mom was a prominent doctor’s only daughter. My dad wanted to go home and show off what he had done with his life. My mom had no say.
We moved into a new house, in a new town the day before I began my Freshman year of highschool. I spent the first four hours of highschool standing in line in the school office, just to be sent to the back of the line each time I made it to the front, because I was such a huge problem: I wasn’t registered, I didn’t have a schedule, they didn’t have my records. Once released, I was guided to my first highschool class where I was told, I would be a year younger than everyone in the class because they didn’t start foreign language until highschool in my new town. Great. I remember being called to the front, having to choose a Spanish name and being interrogated by the teacher all in Spanish to make sure I belonged in the class. All those upper classmen staring. What a beginning. It was such a day of harsh realities. The school seemed brand new, gleaming, bright, colorful, so bright it hurt your eyes. The principal even wore a white suit with white shoes. The school I had left was 7-9, I was the only person attending highschool as a ninth grader that I knew. And, that old school was falling down, poor, used, outdated, still had radiators in the building that we used and mirrors in the hall left from the days they checked the boys hairlines and the length of the girl’s skirts. The kids in my old school looked nothing like these kids in the new school. For one, not one pregnant girl the entire day did I see. My sister and I talked about it all the way home that first day, no pregnant girls in the Middle School, no pregnant girls in the highschool. Where did they go? We had the highest teen pregnancy rate in the state at my old school. We had the smallest teen pregnancy rate in the state at the new school. It was as if we had done time travel with our move, jumping decades in a day’s drive. How is it that we have so much disparity in this country, where freedom reigns, when people have money. This move had my head spinning. I felt disconnected, out of synch and alone. How was I going to fit into this sanitized world that was beautiful, perfect and problem free. I was aching for some reality, a little ugliness, some truth.
Out of this crisis, this crazy family, this sanitized school, triggered a desire for a positive change that might help me survive another four years until I could literally get out. So, I told my Mom I wanted to check out churches in this new town. She and I had an ongoing thing, since I was 10, I would ask to go to a church, she would go with me, we’d talk about what it was like. We continued the game in this new city and went all over the map, I would find one, we would go. She would talk with me about what it was like, what was weird, what was good. These are some of my favorite memories of my mom, those days, those times. Our last attempt landed us at a United Methodist Church. My Mom didn’t want us to go there. Her mother’s funeral service was held at that church and the minister kept calling her mother, my grandmother, Mary when her name was Marie. But, reluctantly, she took me. My sisters came with us that day. We were pretty late, and squeezed into the last row, right next to the door. Only one man came after us, he was old, he smelled really badly. I think the smell was a combination of mothballs, cologne, and body odor. While we were getting settled, I was so self conscious, worried people were going to know we didn’t belong and should be thrown out, that I could hardly breathe until we got settled, and anonymous, that feeling came over me every time we went to one of these places. I was so busy getting to my seat, I didn’t notice who was up front. There was a couple. I later found out they were married to one another and served this church as a team. He was talking when we arrived. That seemed normal, nothing I needed to heed until we were settled. But, just as we settled in our seats she began reading from the Bible. I swear upon my being it was like being hit by lightning. Her voice, those words…They were meant for me. That voice, it was just like mine, these words, this story, it could be for me. It all came together in a moment. This is my story. This is for me. I am part of this. I am welcome here. I am needed in this story, my voice could be heard. Tears started, then poured out of me. My Mom was incredibly embarrassed, she handed me a Kleenex and said the old, “settle down, you’re making a scene”. It took a moment, a word, a sound and my boat settled some from the violent rocking. I felt more home than I ever had. I settled into my silent tears for the rest of the service. And then, at the end, they all held hands. Everyone. Everyone in the entire room held hands. The men held hands if they were next to men, the women held hands, children and babies held hands, the ministers held hands, the whole room was physically connected. And, they sang to one another, “God be with you till we meet again.” That old guy standing next to me, he held my hand, he looked me in the eyes and he sang to me. No one had ever looked at me that way. No one had ever held my hand so gently. No one had ever cared if they were to see me again or not. Here this stranger, someone I didn’t know or like, he smelled, cared about blessing me before I left. The tears began pouring out again. When we got to the car, which was fast, we were there last and sitting by the door. The minute the services were done we were out of there. My Mom was sort of laughing at me, and I remember looking at her with everything I had in my body, over the roof of the car, and simply saying, I’ll be coming back here.
For me, this concept of witnessing the risen Christ are these types of moments. These moments that you can do nothing more than follow. You can no sooner quit breathing than not follow. Follow this presence this call, this passion, this conviction. These moments are filled with an unquenchable love that permeates your whole being, that lights you up, that empowers you to do whatever God is asking. These moments give you the peace of understanding that allows you to understand what it is that needs to be done. Some of you, I know from your own testimonies understand what it is to defy the family system. To tell my mother. This is it. I believe. I’m done living your way. It was the ultimate moment of separation. Those people back in that room, they were going to become my family. If my mother could do anything differently, I do believe she would have never agreed to take me to church. It is her biggest regret and it is my biggest joy. These experiences of the risen Christ encourage you from a deep place within oneself, to become more of who we are called to be. It’s not denying things that you are, but rather a fulfilling of things you maybe didn’t even know you could be. It is the transforming work of becoming a disciple, of living into this experience of unconditional love and being able to broadcast that out into the world through your very being and the transformational presence of the Christ.
The tomb may have been empty 2000 years ago, but the Christ is alive today and I have met him, walked with him, thanked him, and celebrate with him as often as I can. Hallelujah, that stinkin’ tomb was empty!
This community of faith was incredible for my beginning discipleship. They were always so happy to see me, no matter how I cam through the door. They were not afraid of me, they were not afraid of my story, they were not afraid. They were thrilled to know me, to love me, to support me. My mom stayed away a couple of years after that first service but I never missed, not on Sunday, not during the week, if something was going on I was there. I loved how I felt when I was there, I loved what I heard when I was there. I loved getting to know all of those wonderful people. And, they responded to my presence by repeatedly inviting me to get more involved. The first thing was working in the nursery one week a month to help the babies and toddlers have a wonderful experience of church. The next thing was Sunday School. The Youth Group followed that and joining the adult choir followed that. It was a never ending pool of opportunity for growth, celebration, experience, nurturing, love. And, it wasn’t just about needing to find answers with them. They wanted me to attend Sunday School so that I would learn how to ask questions myself. They wanted to equip me with stories that I might some day or already have met on my own. They wanted to nurture me into finding my listening ears for that beautiful calling voice of God. It was that first experience of trying out my own perception of spiritual growth that led me to ask the pastor’s if I could attend confirmation. I was a year older than the other kids in the class but I wanted to do it. The pastors agreed. And it was through that experience of hearing the stories of how the church developed and writing my own faith journey that I had my call experience. I met Christ again the night before confirmation as we practiced together and the ministers were frustrated and yelling, I was filled up with that unquenchable love. I was so full that it seemed I was floating over the room. That peaceful voice of all understanding was coaching me that this was only the beginning. And in that listening I knew that some day I would stand where the minister’s stood, that this was my work to do, that I was needed to tell the story in my own voice for people were going to be hungry to hear.
To be someone who was continually called lazy, fat and stupid. To be someone who could be so despised. To be filled up with all that garbage and crap. And then, to be so full with this unquenchable, undeniable, love. To be called. Me. Just me, within myself. Not to share the message, just to know, this is it. I’m this important. It was the answer to live. It was the answer to work harder. It was the answer to follow through because there was at last a place to be going towards. Meeting this presence of Christ is often the best thing that could ever happen to one in a lifetime.
As if this wasn’t enough by the time I was ready to graduate from highschool. The Admin Council called me in for a meeting. The Bishop was inviting applications and recommendations for those interested in seminary training to do an internship somewhere in the state. I was seventeen at the time. They were so excited, they had filled out the paperwork already and called me into the meeting to read to me their words of encouragement. Never had adults conspired against me to share their words of love with me. It was completely overwhelming. And it was the first sign that this faith stuff, it works beyond our own stuff. I hadn’t told anyone I thought I could be a minister. I hadn’t told anyone about what happened the night before confirmation. And here was an entire group, trying to forward me into that process. They were calling out my gifts, this group of adults, people who were willing to proclaim, she in fact is not garbage. Then, they asked if I was interested. As if I could speak. As if I could wrap my mind around it. And yet, why would I say no? All I had to do was complete the application. We sent it in and much to the congregation’s disgust, I didn’t get it. The Bishop called me and was very apologetic. He was looking for someone that had completed University and prayed I would continue on my path with his blessing. He was a busy man, it was nice of him to call. Well, the church rose to the occasion, they agreed they thought I could do it, so they created the same internship experience for me with the church I belonged to. And, they raised the same amount of money for the stipend that the internship promised. This meant at 17 I went to the hospital and died with people for the first time. This meant I blessed and served communion for the first time. This meant that I was in a leadership role for worship, teaching, and prayer. This meant I preached on a regular basis, all by 17. Can you imagine sending Margo or Angelo off to do this work? I was exactly their age. How is it that this amazing community could trust me to do this kind of work at 17? I was trusted with a church key. I was trusted with an office. This was serious business, and I had their full support. It is because of this internship that I created four more that followed taking one summer to work at church camp. I did two internships with my home church, then served a church in LaCrosse, WI which was where I attended university and I also served a church in Springfield, Missouri since I was considering attending seminary in Missouri, I wanted to get a sense of what it was like there. So many congregations to accept me, so many congregations to strengthen my journey. So many congregations to foster a call within a youth or young adult. It was a transformational witness. Each time I encountered this Christ it changed me. Each time I encounter this Christ it changes me. I am compelled to do more, to dig deeper, to think again. I love knowing I am not garbage. I love knowing it is all not up to me. I love knowing that it all happens beyond me within this body, this community, this gaggle of disciples all involved with the Jesus movement.
I believe that that stinking death hole was empty. I believe it because I have met him. Countless times in my short living. I believe that the work and purpose of coming here each week is to become better disciples of this Christ. Allowing us to transform from thinking we can do it all ourselves to knowing it takes this whole body. Jesus could not do this work. Jesus could not fulfill the work. We could not allow Jesus to do all the work, it required transformation. Because it isn’t about this one guy. It isn’t about his legend. It is about our own personal experience of the Christ and how that is transforming us to be.
We are the United Church of Christ. I say this every Sunday because I believe that the Christ is palpable. That the tomb was empty. And, that we are better, more unified, more capable, more phenomenal when we stand together shouting, Hallelujah! I have been to the tomb and it is empty. For he is risen indeed. I know it because I’ve seen it with my own eyes, this Christ. I’ve felt it in my own heart. And I know the face of God more clearly because of it all. Hallelujah, he is risen indeed!!!Let us pray.