Prepare

The Road to Emmaus story is chock-full of theological imagery and imagination. We meet disciples and Jesus on the road and yet something is keeping the disciples from recognizing Christ. There’s a lot that could be explored as to why the disciples don’t recognize Jesus throughout their entire conversation, especially in light of other resurrection stories we have about Christ where folks recognize him immediately. Moreover, it is theologically significant that his identity is revealed through the Eucharist. It is as they break bread that Christ is recognized for who he is. The meal is the disciples “touching of the wounds” moment that Thomas was so desperate for. The meal is where Jesus is the most recognizable version of himself.

The gospel of Luke, more than the other gospels, emphasizes roads and journeys for both Christ and people of faith. It is fitting, therefore, that we meet Christ on the road as the disciples’ doubts, questions, and pain swirl around them. Their movement in the passage reflects where the disciples are in their processing. They are moving and progressing forward as they are vulnerable with each other and this stranger. When they cry out that they had hoped Jesus really was the messiah, they reveal their underlying fear: it now appears he was not. It isn’t until right before Christ is revealed to them that they find a place to stop and sit with their grief. Once he is revealed, the disciples are on the road again, this time to redeem the story that was told as they left. 

Opening Exercise

Are you currently hoping for anything in particular? What does it feel like to hope for something with true hope (something you cannot work towards on your own, but something you have to trust God, or someone else, to come through for you?). 

Read the Text:

Luke 24:13-35

When Easter Hope Isn’t all Shiny and Pastel

A few years ago I was talking with a friend about her husband’s cancer diagnosis. In this conversation I could feel the

sadness and frustration starting to get me down so I said something along the lines of “but we’re hopeful the next treatment will work!” I am ever the person to add sugar to a terrible situation. Luckily, my friend was willing to be honest and vulnerable with me. She said, “honestly, I’m feeling kind of burned by hope. I’d rather not.” I was stunned…Isn’t hope a good thing? 

But she shared that they’d been hoping. That they had hoped the tumor wasn’t cancer at all and then it was. They had hoped the cancer wouldn’t progress and then it did. They had hoped chemo would work and then it didn’t. She, like the disciples on the road in our story, was tired of hope.

When you think about it, hope sets us up to be burned a time or two because, when we start hoping, our whole demeanor changes. We go from a place of accepting our circumstance to dreaming about what things could be like if God, or someone more powerful than we are, stepped up. It’s the dreaming that makes hope dangerous. The disciples who met Jesus on the road had been hoping that Jesus was going to redeem Israel. When it looks like that hasn’t and won’t happen, they are down worse than they were before they met Jesus. They are more upset than when they had no hope.

Easter Hope

What really gets the disciples is that they assume this is the end of the story. They have left the other disciples, wallowing as they walk back towards their lives before hope. But that isn’t how Jesus works. They stop having hope because they tied their hope to very specific outcomes. They hoped that Jesus would redeem them in an earthly battle. They hoped Jesus would never die. They hoped in far smaller ways than our God works. 

When Jesus is revealed in the meal, what the disciples start to see is that their hope made Jesus way too small. They didn’t need to hope he wouldn’t die, because he overcame death. They didn’t need to hope that Jesus would win some earthly battle leaving some new people to be corrupted by power while others struggled. Christ brings the Kingdom of God in which there is abundance for everyone and nobody is lesser than anyone else. This story shows us the danger of hope in our world, not because we might be disappointed (though that’s always a bummer), but because if we hope with too much specificity we might miss who God is altogether. 

When we hope, we hope in a God who is doing far bigger things than our imaginations can handle. The same God who has kept my friend’s husband alive and well for far longer now than any doctor expected.

Reflection Questions

• What do you think the disciples had hoped would happen instead of the cross?
• When have you missed, or almost missed, something really good because you were hoping for something else?
• How can we hope while being faithful to how gigantic our God is? How do we make sure our hopes aren’t putting God in a box?

Closing Activity 

Have students get into pairs and share their hopes. Invite them to gently “correct” each other until their hope is Christ sized, not limited to our own imaginations.

Here’s an example:

• I hope my friend gets better.
• I hope my friend is no longer in pain or the hospital.
• I hope my friend is able to live a rich and happy life with/without their illness.

Once each student has a God-sized hope, share them with the group.

Closing Prayer

Prayer of Good Courage:

O God, you have called your servants
to ventures of which we cannot see the ending,
by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown.
Give us faith to go out with good courage,
not knowing where we go,
but only that your hand is leading us
and your love supporting us,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Bio

Lindsay Batesmith is the pastor of Rejoice Lutheran Church in Erie, CO. She is consistently in awe of the power of vulnerability to connect us to each other and invite the Holy Spirit to transform lives. When not at church or her favorite coffee shop, Lindsay is usually playing with her dog, Echo, or watching the Great British Bakeoff with her wife, Tillie.

Prepare

The gloom and despair of Matthew 26-27 hangs over the beginning of chapter 28. Those who had followed Jesus, who had been welcomed by his grace, had lost everything. All of their hopes had been cruelly nailed to the cross with violent and stunning finality. Many of those close to him, fearing for their own lives and darkened by unspeakable despair, hid in a room. Three women who had followed him, however, forced themselves to bring honor to Jesus one last time, heading out early in the morning to anoint his broken, scarred, dead body for burial.

Jesus had interrupted their lives with the call to follow him. It was an interruption that took them places they never dared dream possible.

But now, his execution put paid to all of that.

Until…

Opening Exercise:

When you hear the word, “Easter,” what memories/feelings/images/stories does it conjure up for you?

Text Read Aloud:

Matthew 28:1-10

A Bike Crash and the Empty Tomb

On March 11, 2019, I was finishing up a 20-mile bike ride. I’d been riding the bike paths of Glendale, Peoria, and Phoenix, AZ for over 13 years. To that point I had cycled over 40,000 miles! Starting out the day with an early morning ride was one of the best parts of my day. In fact, it still is!

But that day, about two miles from my house, riding around a corner I had ridden dozens of times, my front tire slipped on some loose gravel and I fell. Hard. My right shoulder and head did battle against the cement path. Thanks to my helmet, my head won. My shoulder, however, lost. Badly.

I wasn’t in pain, but the first thing I noticed, after getting up off of the ground, was that my right shoulder was several inches higher than it should be.

I had blown up all of the ligaments that held my shoulder together. Two weeks later I was in surgery.

That split second interrupted my life for several months. Being right-handed and now in a harness, it interrupted my eating. My teeth brushing. My sleep­­; I slept in an easy chair for 12 months! My ability to type/text. My bathing habits. My ability to show up and lead worship. My ability to drive and hug my grandkids.

Interruptions are a part of life. Moments that can reset the paths of our lives. Some of those interruptions impact us positively: falling in love; graduating high school; starting a job; gaining new friends; moving to a new city. Others can set us back and negatively impact our lives: cancer; the loss of a loved one; divorce; an injury.

Sometimes those interruptions break us.

Easter’s Interruption

Matthew’s Gospel recounts an interruption that not only changed the trajectory of two women’s lives, but one that continues to reverberate to this day; an interruption that changes everything.

2000 years ago God interrupted human history when God’s grace exploded out of a tomb in Jerusalem, interrupting:

• Death with life
• Sin with forgiveness
• Despair with hope
• Anxiety with peace
• Grief with the presence of God

For three years, Jesus made his way throughout Israel interrupting people with the call to follow him; to live as loved and forgiven people; to live as loving and forgiving people. It was a call that changed the trajectory of the lives of all who followed him.

Easter’s Interruption

That mission of interrupting people’s lives with God’s grace, however, was seemingly interrupted itself—and finished—when Jesus was crucified.

But God’s grace interrupted that interruption by raising Jesus from the dead. In the process, God interrupted all those interruptions that rob us of life.

Easter, the interruption of God’s grace, changes the orientation of our lives. It roots our lives in God’s love for us. It holds us steady through all the ups and downs and all the interruptions thrown at us in this life.

And that grace, that unconditional love that God has for you and for me, is the one thing in life we can always count on. It’s the one thing that no interruption can ever interrupt.

Today, Jesus, the crucified and risen Savior comes to interrupt your life with grace. He says to you:

• You are mine
• You’re my child
• I love you

No matter what life throws your way, I will always be there for you. I will always have your back.

So follow me as I interrupt your life with my grace!

Reflection Questions:

• How do you think the women felt when the Angel of the Lord interrupted their visit to the tomb?
• Think back to one or two positive and negative interruptions in your life. How did they affect you?
• Why or how does Jesus’ resurrection change everything?
• How has the call of Jesus interrupted your life?

Closing Activity:

As a group, or as individuals, think about one practical way that you might interrupt the life or lives of someone with a tangible expression of God’s love for them.

Final Blessing:

Choose someone to pray this blessing over the group:

I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Ephesians 3:16-19, NRSVue)

Bio

Tim Wright served as an ELCA pastor for 41 years. He and his wife, Jan, have been married since 1979. They have two adult children, five grandchildren, and two dachshunds. They live in Glendale, AZ. You can access Tim’s Reckless Grace Substack at https://recklessgrace.substack.com/ and his Deep-Grace Diving Podcast at https://open.spotify.com/show/4WPRRpqMtUzyPeqcqbqrgv

He is also the author of the middle school series: The Adventures of Toby Baxter. https://www.timwrightbooks.com/

Blessings as we enter holy week! Many of you have journeyed with ELCA World Hunger through Lent as we have reflected on the Psalms and what meaning that vast collection of hymns, poems, laments and prayers might have for hunger ministry today. As the season comes to a close, thank you for being part of the 40 Days of Giving!

Lent is a common time for congregations to focus on hunger and social ministry. Indeed, almsgiving is one of the traditional “three pillars” of Lent (the other two being prayer and fasting) and is still found as one of the disciplines of Lent observed by Lutherans today. While many of us think of fasting as the core practice of Lent, the history of the church reminds us that fasting and giving are two sides of the same coin. The witness of Isaiah goes even further, describing authentic fasting as intimately tied to love and justice for the neighbor:

Is this not the fast I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? (Is. 58:6)

Scripture and tradition make a good case for focusing on hunger ministry during Lent. But this upcoming weekend may be an even more important time to reinvigorate our efforts. As pointed as Isaiah’s message about fasting may be, for Lutherans, it is the feast – and not just the fast – that calls to us.

Sharing the Feast

Say what you will about Martin Luther (no, seriously, say whatever you want – he deserves heaps of both praise and blame), but he certainly knew how to craft a pithy phrase or two. One of his most famous couplets comes from his 1520 “Treatise on Christian Liberty”:

A Christian is a perfectly free lord of all, subject to none.

A Christian is a perfectly dutiful servant of all, subject to all.

As paradoxical as it might seem, what Luther is getting at is that we don’t experience God as humanity’s captor, binding us to rules and obligations, but as our liberator. That’s not to say that there aren’t obligations and demands – the Law is still the Law and still God-given. But within the Gospel, God reveals Godself to be the one who frees us from bondage to sin, death and to the notion that we can save ourselves, hence “perfectly free.”

This is a dramatic shift in Christian ethics. Why do we do “good works”? Certainly, for Lutherans, we know that those works won’t save us. No amount of fasting or almsgiving will merit a reward (or even make us good people.) And it’s not merely because the Law, with its rules for righteous living, is so compelling (we can’t fully follow it anyway.) Instead, what motivates Lutheran ethics is the experience of being loved and set free from the burden of trying – and failing – to overcome our own sin. The foundation of loving a neighbor, of striving for justice and of working to end hunger is nothing more or less than gratitude.

To play a bit with Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s popular phrase “cheap grace,” this isn’t “cheap thanks.” It’s not the kind of gratitude for all the great things we have or, worse, the gratefulness that “at least we aren’t like them.” It’s deeper than that. What moves us to choose for ourselves being “subject to all” is the realization that our entire lives, our eternal salvation, is an undeserved gift. We don’t have to worry about our own salvation, or feeling as if we aren’t enough, or fearing that the world around us will corrupt our souls or separate us from God. Instead, we can freely and boldly love and serve one another. Social ministry is not a legalistic requirement but a response to an invitation to be part of what God is doing in the world: “Come and see!”

Easter, then, isn’t the celebratory end to the sacrifice of fasting and almsgiving in Lent but the very foundation of a new life lived in gift and promise, the free gift to be bold in our love of one another and the assured promise that in so doing, we are bearing witness to God’s building of a just world where all are fed. The feast of Easter nourishes us for the work ahead.

Surveying the Cross

We can’t get there too quickly, though. All too often, our Holy Week moves from Good Friday to Easter Sunday without giving us time to hang in the liminal space of Holy Saturday. Swiss theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar says that the church needs to avoid this temptation of moving too quickly from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. We have to be in that Holy Saturday moment with the disciples, von Balthasar writes, even just for a bit. For those disciples, that first day after Friday, Jesus is dead. The one they’d given up their lives to follow is now laying in a tomb. A quote often attributed to Luther describes the moment: “God’s very self lay dead in a grave.” For the disciples, there is no Easter Sunday. The messiah is dead, and hope seems lost.

Living after the resurrection, it’s difficult to fully understand that kind of grief, but we must because in that grief is honesty. For all the joy and hope and feasting of Easter, we live in a world where the number of people facing hunger is growing, not declining, where income inequality continues to rise, and where justice and opportunity seem further and further away, especially for communities whose strides toward progress are often stymied by violence, marginalization and oppression.

It’s a grief not only for our world, though, but also for our own shortcomings. As the church, the death of Christ reminds us of our own complicity in human suffering. Sure, the church has done some wonderful things, but the cross confronts us with the ways we have fallen short, the ways we have contributed to rather than alleviated injustice, the communities harmed by the church’s good intentions, and the people pushed aside, sometimes violently, as we have pursued what we call “mission.”

Living and Serving in Holy Week Tension

Living in Holy Saturday means living into that grief and honesty about ourselves and our world. Where Easter inspires joy in God’s promise, Holy Saturday fills us with a sacred longing for that same promise. In Easter, we celebrate it. In Holy Saturday, we yearn for it.

That movement between celebration and yearning, between joy and grief is the tension that grounds our work together as ELCA World Hunger and as a church accompanying neighbors in need. We are caught between the cross and the empty tomb, embodying the grief and longing of a long Holy Saturday before we see the promise fulfilled. And we should be. We celebrate as God works through communities near and far to create new opportunities for abundant life through neighbors joining together with determination and hope. And we lament for a world where the crosses of injustice, violence, marginalization, inequity, racism, heterosexism, sexism, ableism, ethnocentrism, exploitation and more continue to dot the landscape.

This is where the ministry of the church in a hungry world begins. Not in the self-sacrifice of Lent but in in grief and joy, in lament and hope, in yearning and thanksgiving, in the tension between Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday. It’s a costly faith that we find there, with no easy answers – but with the assurance that even then, God is still at work.

What might that mean for our day-to-day responses to hunger? What might it look like for hunger ministry to be grounded in both hope and lament? As we emerge into the season of Easter, I pray that that those questions can stay with us, that we can carry a bit of both Easter Sunday and Holy Saturday with us into the rest of the year.

Our journey through Lent doesn’t end at the cross or even the empty tomb but continues in the long walk with one another toward the future that is both promised and deeply, deeply needed.

 

Ryan P. Cumming, Ph.D., is the interim director for education and networks for the Building Resilient Communities team.

 

 

These reflections are a part of ELCA World Hunger’s Sermon Starter series which is published via email every Monday. You can sign up for the weekly email here on the right side of the page, if on a computer, or near the bottom of the page, if viewing on a mobile device. Pastor Tim Brown is the writer of these reflections. Pr. Tim is a Gifts Officer and Mission Ambassador for the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago and a pastor and writer out of Raleigh, NC. You are invited to use the message below for personal devotion as well as prompts for sermon writing. 

April 12- Easter Sunday

Jeremiah 31:1-6

Should you decide not to preach on Matthew’s resurrection account, my suggestion would be to choose the Jeremiah offering (the alternative option) rather than the reading from Acts as the basis for the sermon. And the choice is purely contextual, if I’m honest with you, because fine Easter sermons can be crafted from either text.

But the Jeremiah reading has this wonderful cadence that dances a bit on this day of celebration, and the wonderful theme of “Again” used in the text can be played with to craft a sermon of resurrection hope that might be most impactful in this strange time of wilderness.

“Again, I will build you…” says the Lord. “Again, you shall take your tambourines…” says the Divine.  “Again, you shall plant…” says the Holy Gardener.

“Again” might just be the message your people need. For though it is Easter, it is also “The 5^th Sunday of the Pandemic” for most of us, and perhaps the third or fourth Sunday of “shelter-in-place.”  These realities must be spoken of, too.

In fact, I dare say that every year, Easter speaks to these kinds of realities; we just fail to recognize that fact most years from the comfort of our new dresses and freshly pressed suits with floral print ties.

Your people will gather together, in person, again.  Your people will be able to embrace one another, again. Families separated by quarantine will be able to kiss one another, again.

It will happen again! There will be a time after this pandemic. If there’s one thing Easter makes abundantly clear, again and again, every year, it’s that there is always an “again.”

Neither life, nor pandemic, nor crucifixion nor death can stop that. On this Sunday above all others (but also, all the others!) this is the Gospel message.

A final lovely nugget hidden in this prophetic text is the heavy but heartening truth that the people of Israel didn’t just find grace after they were through the wilderness period, but rather, as Jeremiah says, they found “grace in the wilderness.”

There is grace in the wilderness. And I’m not talking about silver linings or optimism or “glass-half-full” sort of grace, but rather the kind of grace that knocks you off your feet and helps you survive another day sort of graces.

I’m talking about Easter-sized sort of graces.

Reminding people that though shopping is suspended, and socializing in person is suspended, and yes, Easter sunrise service is suspended in these days, grace is not suspended.  God’s grace is never suspended.

Grace is found again and again, even now, even in these days.  Which is worth celebrating and shouting “Alleluia” for this morning.

Again we will hold hands. Again we will join together. Again there is grace to be found, even today.

Again and again and again — and no quarantine, no shelter-in-place, no tomb will ever cause that not to be true.

Matthew 28:1-10

On this Easter, many churches around the world are empty, just like that tomb was empty in ancient Palestine on that “first day of the week.”

In this pandemic, the most honest sign of love that the Christian world can give to the greater world, and to one another (and by extension, to the God seen in the risen Christ), is an empty church building. I’m serious.

There may be a few places in the world where the pandemic has not yet reached levels where churches are empty; places that may be far from you geographically but, through the faith that connects us, not so far at all. If there are, they will gather together in body for the rest of us as we all gather together in spirit on this Sunday.

Perhaps this is a good Sunday, the Feast of the Resurrection as it is formally called, to remember that our church gatherings are both local and universal, every time we gather. Our communion liturgy connects us both with one another, but it also connects us across continents and cultures, and with the distant past and with the future, as we join the “saints of every time and place.” That “every” there really does mean every, Beloved.

This is what our theology tells us.

Notice how Matthew’s resurrection account opens a very poignant and timely door for us today, a door upon which the sermon can hinge. The angels, when greeting the women, tell them the resurrection news and instruct them to go tell the disciples to meet Jesus back in Galilee.

And then, the text says, they go “with fear and great joy.”

We often, I think, assume that great joy and fear are mutually exclusive, but this text reminds us that they need not be. We can be both fearful and joyful, which is probably where a lot of your parishioners are at in these days, right?

Yes, we may be quarantined, and there is some fear around the future, but on this Easter Sunday we are also filled with great joy because we remember the promise that the love of God cannot be stopped by anything, not even death.

Yes, we may have to shelter-in-place, and there is some fear about what that is doing to the economy, but on this Easter Sunday we are also filled with great joy because we remember the promise that God resurrects bodies, and they are paramount, and we are saving people’s lives in these days, just as all of us will one day dance bodily with the risen Christ.

Yes, we may be separated from one another, and there is some fear and anxiety about when we can be back together, but there is also great joy on this Easter Sunday because we remember that every Sunday leading up to this, we’ve been practicing in our souls and hearts for the day when we truly, truly need the Easter story, and by God, it’s today.

On this Easter Sunday, do not take the easy way out and present a rosy picture; Easter isn’t meant for rosy days.

Easter is meant, necessary even, for days of fear and tombs and women gathering in the darkness unsure of what they’ll find.

Easter is meant for today, by God.  Alleluia!

Children’s Message

Online Children’s Messages can’t reliably lean on congregational participation, especially if the kids aren’t old enough to type in a chat box or if you’re incapable of hearing them.  I’m going to continue assuming that you’re recording this for them to experience online.

Have a huge Alleluia banner, or even a sheet of paper with an individual letter spelling out the word Alleluia, on it.

Welcome, everyone!

(name) here, and I’m so glad you’re here on this Easter Sunday! <pretend to look into the camera> Wow!  Look at all those Easter dresses and fancy clothes you all have on.

Well, oh, and someone is still in their pajamas! Which is great! God loves us no matter what we’re wearing.

And, in fact, God loves us no matter where we are! And just because we can’t be together today doesn’t mean that we can’t celebrate Easter, right?

Now, there’s one word we haven’t been saying all of Easter. It starts with an A and…wait, I have something to show you. <pull out the Alleluia banner, or at least the first letter of the word, if they’re on individual sheets of paper> Here it is!

Alleluia!  It’s kind of like yelling “Yeah!” to God.

So, what I want you to do is shout it with me. Everyone. On the count of three.  Ready? 1-2-3 <hold up the banner> Alleluia!

You know what? If we all shouted that at the same time, we’re more connected than ever!

Can you do me a favor? Ask a parent or guardian to video you giving your biggest Alleluia. You can say it loud, sing it or even take a picture with you holding an Alleluia banner that you made. Can you do that? Have them send it to me.

Because on Easter we celebrate that Jesus was resurrected from the dead, and that even though we might be separate from one another this Sunday, we won’t stay that way forever, and that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love.

So, send the church those videos or those pictures, and let me see those resurrection smiles! Oh, and don’t worry. You can wear your Easter best or your PJs…God doesn’t care.  Jesus is risen, which means we can celebrate no matter where we are or how we are!

Post the videos, with permission, to your social media sites.

There is no Faith Lens this week, however, you might ponder this artistic reflection on the holiest of mysteries intersecting the mundane.