All of These Hands and Feet

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
November 4, 2007; All Saints' Sunday, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Luke 6:20-31) -- Jesus looked up at his disciples and said:

"Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.
"Blessed are you who are hungry now,
for you will be filled.
"Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.
"Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.
"But woe to you who are rich,
for you have received your consolation.
"Woe to you who are full now,
for you will be hungry.
"Woe to you who are laughing now,
for you will mourn and weep.
"Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets

"But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you."
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Our lives vibrate between two darknesses. We hesitantly come forth out of the darkness of birth and slowly vanish into the darkness of death. We move from dust to dust, from unknown to unknown, from mystery to mystery.

We try to keep a vital balance on the thin rope that is stretched between two definitive endings we have never seen or understood. We are surrounded by the reality of the unseen, which fills every part of our life with a moment of terror but at the same time holds the secret mystery of our being alive.

Those words are from the late Henri Nouwen from his book Creative Ministry, speaking of our journey from mystery to mystery through mystery. Keeping one's vital balance on that thin rope stretched between birth and death -- it is especially challenging when the reality of the unseen neighbor of death visits so closely.

Go back in your imagination to the darkness that enveloped the twelve and their companions on that sad Friday night following the brutal killing of their friend and leader, Jesus. Go back with them as they huddle behind locked doors, not knowing if the authorities would be coming for them next. Dim lights and hushed voices speak in fragments of fear and hurt. In the presence of such loss, the surprise of what it all means seems to come in waves. He won't be at the table anymore; the caring looks, the familiar hug. All gone. As you remember each part of life that will permanently be altered by this great absence, another tide sweeps into your gut, carving out a new place of emptiness that gapes helplessly.

Someone breaks the tense silence with a story. Do you remember when we were at that wedding? And the poor hosts ran out of wine. He always had a soft spot for the poor. What was it he said, "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God"? I thought he said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit," another voice recalls. Well, whatever. And the silence descends again.

Everyone processes grief differently. One person goes to bed early and collapses in a coma-like oblivion. Another cannot sleep, except in short interrupted bursts. Mary of Magdala couldn't rest. She stirred early, before the sun. The memories flooding her tiredness into restlessness. Drawn by the urge to be near that which has been taken, she finds herself led to the place of his burial. On returning, she tries to tell them, between fits of sobs of incredulity and joy, that something has happened. They don't believe her, of course.

When young people are forced to stillness, the tension seems to build up in their muscles as an explosive ache. The news from Mary seems to tip the scales for the youngest among them, John, and he has to do something. He starts running, finding his now liberated feet taking him swiftly toward the site. Feeling responsible, Peter looks around, but no one else moves. So he follows.

When they return with a report about the neatly folded shroud, the mood has shifted. Something is happening. Everything is changing in a different, mysterious way.

Late that afternoon, we travel with two of their company walking a short way out from Jerusalem. A stranger hears their speculations and pauses to ask. They walk and talk. As strangers so often do, this one comes from a different perspective, and gives them insights into possibilities they hadn't previously considered. As they near the Inn which would shield them for the night, they ask him in. He joins them at the table, a table like so many others where they have dined with strangers and outcasts and others -- a sacred table where divisions have been healed and relationships sealed. This stranger takes the bread, blesses, brakes it, and gives it to them. And their eyes are opened. It is Jesus. He has been with them all the time.

He is with us now also. He is present in the words we remember; in the stories we repeat. He is present in the stranger and the other; in the bread and in the wine. He is not a ghost, but the encountered reality of body and blood, of a community that is his heart and hands and feet.

From that day he has been with us. And because his resurrection is but the first fruits of the resurrection of the dead, all of the others are with us too. Mary Magdelene and John and Peter. The two walking down the road; whenever two or three are gathered together in his name. These are living realities and we encounter them in the living mystery.

They are with us especially in the thin places -- at table and in dreams; when we do the things they did; in words that come from them to us; in love remembered and love renewed. We experience an encountered reality of body and blood. Bettie Thomas is with us; a living reality. We know her spirit as we bless a Guild in her name to carry on her heart and hands and feet in the ministry of flowers. John Lewis is with us; a living reality. Last night his image appeared on the wall as a community gathered to celebrate the life of a professional theater company which he helped birth. Tom Lewis is with us, as pledges come in to Suzi's desk where he would visit daily during stewardship time, tickled to see the generosity of this congregation in which he invested so much of his love. This community is the living reality of Bettie and John and Tom and all who have given breath and life and energy to this part of Christ's Body.

Your saints are with you now as well. The ones who gave you breath and life and energy. The teacher who told you you could do it; the person who loved you without conditions; the friend who awakened your hope or courage. We all have our saints. They have given us hearts and hands and feet. I can believe in a God of unqualified love because my granddad Lawrence loved me that way; I can believe in an invisible God who cares about me because of the Johansens -- a Norwegian couple who took my young mother under wing when she was far from home with a newborn baby. I grew into adolescence before I ever met them in person, but whatever was happening in my life, they knew about it from my mother's notes, and they cared, invisibly and distantly mysterious. Some of the words I have for the great mystery of life and the deeper mystery of God are gifts from Paul and John and the late Henri Nouwen and so many other friends of the Word.

Look at me. See my hands and my feet. This is no ghost before you. I am a living reality, and in me lives the very life and spirit of Lawrence and the Johansens and Paul and Henri. Look at you. See all of these hands and feet. These are no ghosts before you. This is the living reality of Bettie and John and Tom and countless others whose body and blood had been taken and broken and given and received by us and is now in us, a living reality of hearts and hands and feet.

On this feast of All Saints we remember and celebrate those who have given us flesh and blood, spirit and heart. And we feel our own place along this living continuum, the legacy we are creating as we take and bless and give our selves, our souls and bodies -- an eternal, living reality.

Our lives vibrate between two darknesses. We hesitantly come forth out of the darkness of birth and slowly vanish into the darkness of death. We move from dust to dust, from unknown to unknown, from mystery to mystery.

We try to keep a vital balance on the thin rope that is stretched between two definitive endings we have never seen or understood. We are surrounded by the reality of the unseen, which fills every part of our life with a moment of terror but at the same time holds the secret mystery of our being alive.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

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