A Joyfully Shared Life--April 27, 2026

A Joyfully Shared Life--April 27, 2026

"Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the good will of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved." (Acts 2:43-47)

It really is a gift to be able to sit down with your family and share a meal together. For all the additional work it takes to coordinate schedules, to get the food cooked, to get young hands to help set the table, and to pause the distractions and busyness of the day for even a half an hour of synchronized eating, it truly is worth all the work that goes into making it happen.

It is a gift of grace to share a table for an ordinary Monday dinner, regardless of what is on the menu, because it is in that shared meal that we share our lives. Make no mistake about it: it is a holy and blessed thing to take the time--and to get to take the time--whether it's over fish sticks or filet mignon, to share a table with the family.

When we eat together, we talk to each other. You find out what the best part of someone else's day was. You hear what is on the mind and on the heart of the other people around the table. You build the common experiences, the memories, the household traditions, of certain foods and certain times. You share. You pass the mashed potatoes and you split the last serving of meatloaf. And in the passing of the platters, the family practices its own kind of economics, without talking about who "earned" the food, but only the joyful concern to make sure everyone gets to have enough on their plate. And those meals, whether with just a nuclear family or five generations and their bonus friends who got the invite, those meals become the threads that bind our lives together.

You and I know as much from having eaten at tables like that before. We know what it is like to be the one included even if you don't share a bit of biology with anybody else, but simply on the basis of the principle of "The more, the merrier." We know what it is like to find comfort from each other even when our hearts were heavy, and then to find that sharing a meal together lifted us back up again. We know what it is like to teach children the importance of taking care of one another by modeling the passing of the rolls, the waiting on seconds until everyone has gotten a first helping, and the value of waiting for everyone to be at the table before we eat. We know what it is like to see the common meal flow almost seamlessly into the common labor of clearing the table and washing the dishes. And that is why we keep gathering around tables, even though there are times when it is tough, or when personalities clash, or when we are already so hangry (that is, "hungry-angry") that we get on each other's nerves before the drinks are already poured, or when we are each so busy that it can feel like trying to align the planets to make the gatherings happen. But we keep at it, we and our various families, because in a very real sense, those meals bring us to life and sustain us for the times when we aren't all around the table.

Now, if we know the value of that kind of shared experience at a dinner table with our families, it won't surprise us that the first followers of Jesus saw the same power among them as well. They were not biologically related--and yet they made the effort to share tables and break bread with one another. They didn't "have to" all share meals together, at least not in the sense of some kind of religious law or requirement of their piety--but the practice of sharing meals together was so life-giving and so essential from the beginning that the first Christians did it without anybody "making" them. They had not yet invented all of the layers of liturgical sediment or shiny gold accessories as the later church would get saddled with like great-grandmother's china that nobody knows what to do with--and yet they held the common meal as of great importance. 

The first followers of Jesus knew that sharing tables with one another was part of how they learned to love each other. It's part of what it means to belong in the "found family" of God. You learn to love the people you pass the mashed potatoes to. You get in the habit of asking about their day or their dreams. You become accustomed to sharing the common work before and after the meal. And all of that is really what it looks like to love each other. Nobody has to enforce it as a rule, but the common table and the common life become so obviously important that it is worth it to make the effort to set up the chairs and put out the serving dishes.

That's the way I think we have to hear these verses from the beginning of Acts, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday. And really, as much as it seems obvious to anybody who has had a family dinner in their lives, it's important for us to say this out loud. And that's because we can be so afraid of making this shared meal and shared resource thing into a "rule" that we ignore passages like this from Acts altogether. I can't tell you how many times in my life I have heard people, upon reading these verses from Acts, blurt out like an alibi, "But this isn't a requirement! Not all early Christians lived communally like this, and we don't have any proof they ever did it outside of the city of Jerusalem here in the first few chapters of Acts!" And while it is of course technically true that Jesus issued no commands that his followers "had to" eat together every so often, that seems almost willfully to miss the point.

Can you technically be a family and still never eat together? Sure. But either you have to make the effort of finding other ways and times to share each other's lives, or you just slowly succumb to drifting apart. You'll still be a family, at least in name or DNA, but you will have missed something beautiful, something blessed, something essential. Well, it's the same with us as the family called church: the more we share our lives with one another, including breaking bread "with glad and generous hearts," the more we find our lives strengthened and enriched. It's not a matter of "have to" or "you can't make me"--it's a matter of what love does. And love shares food, passes the mashed potatoes, and then shares the labor after dinner--that's just what it does.

In the day and time in which we live, is SO easy to insist that nobody can "make" us share our abundance with someone else, or that nobody can "compel" us to give up our stuff so that someone else can have enough. It is so easy to become resentful when someone else gets a break that you didn't get. It is so easy to become bitter and possessive, and to start digging in our heels about how someone else is getting something they didn't earn while I feel like I'm getting passed over. That is exactly how the culture in which we live teaches us to see the world.... but it is not how it works in a family. And even though there is no requirement for salvation to share X-percent of our resources, or to give up Y-number of possessions, or to share so many church dinners together, we know that sharing our tables and our stuff is part of how family works... and we are a found family together, we followers of Jesus.

Today, then, instead of the knee-jerk impulse to say, "Nobody can MAKE me share--not a table, and not my treasures!" what if we were the people who saw in the example of the Acts 2 Church a picture of a more joyful life together? What if, instead of scrambling for excuses of why we don't "HAVE to" take the time or make the effort to share our tables and share one another's troubles, we chose to say, "It's not a matter of whether we have to or not, but we are missing out on something good and beautiful if we don't keep gathering at table and sharing our abundance." Glad and generous hearts--that sounds like what I want to be. Why would we not make the effort and keep the commitment to share our tables, to share our resources, and to share the time doing the dishes afterward, too?

Come to the table. And if there isn't one already set up to come to, then you be the one who sets up a table and invites others around to join you.

Lord Jesus, give us the fullness of life that unfolds from breaking bread and passing the peas, as well as sharing our abundance with one another because we have discovered we are family together.

We Will Love--April 24, 2026

We Will Love--April 24, 2026

"Now that you have purified your souls by your obedience to the truth so that you have genuine mutual love, love one another deeply from the heart. You have been born anew, not of perishable but of imperishable seed, through the living and enduring word of God." (1 Peter 1:22-23)

What do you do once you realize you don't have to keep looking over your shoulder?

What do you do when it occurs to you that you don't need to run and hide from divinely-thrown lightning bolts to smite you for some past secret sin?

What would you spend your energy on if you knew you didn't have to save it all for carrying the weight of every past failure on your back?

Or, to put it in the classic wording of the late Gerhard Forde's question, "What will you do, now that you don't have to do anything?"

We will love.

To hear First Peter tell it, it's just that obvious, and it's just that simple. We love--deeply and genuinely--because we no longer have to live under the constant worry of being condemned by God. And with that fear put away and left behind, we find we really are freed to love.

With yesterday and today's devotions, we've been taking a closer look at a passage many of us heard this past Sunday in worship. And First Peter has been abundantly clear that God has chosen not to hold our sins, our mess-ups, and our worst moments against us. We have been set free, First Peter said, like captives held for ransom and liberated. And even more amazingly, First Peter has told us, God made that choice not to hold our wrongs against us from before the foundation of the world, but rather set in motion the whole sweep of salvation history to rescue us. All of that is the starting point, the given, of the Christian story.

And now the question is, what next? What do people do who know that they are not being targeted from on high or condemned from some celestial throne room? Well, we are finally able to love others genuinely without trying to calculate whether we are being "good enough" to cancel out some of the red marks on our permanent records. In other words, the train of thought isn't complete until it arrives at love, like the plant hasn't arrived at maturity until the new shoots give way to blossoms and then in turn to fruit. Love is where the Christian life is headed, and forgiveness is what makes it possible for us to love others genuinely.

Understanding that is key, because we are otherwise likely to make one of two big theological mistakes in our lives. One is stopping short and reducing the whole of the Christian faith to simply, "You're already forgiven, so go ahead and be a selfish jerk--there's nothing more to following Jesus than just hearing the sentence that you're forgiven. See you in heaven." And the other is to get it all backwards and think that forgiveness of sins can be achieved by being loving enough, like getting paroled for good behavior.

First Peter help make it clear for us: the next step beyond hearing you are redeemed is to realize that you are now freed for something--for love. And it always goes in that direction: grace makes us capable of loving, because grace is what assures us we don't need to use our good deeds as bargaining chips to get time off of our sentence. There is no jail time. You are not condemned. You do not have to worry about someone finding you out and reporting you to the Heavenly Prison Warden, and you don't have to hope that you get bonus points for helping that senior citizen across the street or returning that five-dollar bill you found on the street corner. You don't have to worry about "points"--God has already decided not to keep score or count beans, so you are actually free to love people for their own sake, not as props in your merit-badge-earning.

When we treat loving others like it's a way to impress God, it turns out we aren't impressive and we're not actually loving others, either--we're just using them as means to an end. But when we start from the point of knowing we don't have to earn points, then love for others is at long last actually love--the conscious choice to seek the good of others for their own sake, not just for our own ulterior motives.

Today, then, knowing we are free from having to impress God or reduce our sentence, let's use this day well, wisely, and freely... for love.

What will we do with this day, this moment, this chance?

We will love.

Lord God, you have already freed us from sin's grip--enable us to see ourselves as freed for the embrace of love.

Already Freed--April 23, 2026

Already Freed--April 23, 2026

"You know that you were ransomed from the futile ways inherited from your ancestors, not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, like that of a lamb without defect or blemish." (1 Peter 1:18-19)

You have been set free. As in, it is already accomplished. As in, your release has been secured, the fines are paid, you've been bailed out, and the door is open. You are already freed.

The trouble is, so often, we refuse to believe such news is a present-tense reality, and we keep staying stuck in old ruts thinking we have no choice but to remain trapped in the same old deathly cycles and the same old miserable habits we feel trapped inside. And, to be honest, often Respectable Religious Leaders aren't very helpful, because they [ahem... we] have often mangled the Good News to sound like it only speaks to our future after death, like it's about one day being free in heaven rather than knowing we have been redeemed now. And as long as we think that "freedom" is just off in the future, it will always seem out of reach, conditional, and hypothetical. It won't seem real to us until we understand it is already accomplished on our behalf.

There's a great line of the late theologian Robert Farrar Capon that comes to mind. He's reflecting on a passage from Paul's letter to the Romans where the apostle says, "There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus," and Capon says this:

"Saint Paul has not said to you, 'Think how it would be if there were no condemnation'; he has said, 'There is therefore none.' He has made an unconditional statement, not a conditional one--a flat assertion, not a parabolic one. He has not said, 'God has done this and that and the other thing; and if by dint of imagination you can manage to put it all together, you may be able to experience a little solace in the prison of your days.' No. He has simply said, 'You are free. Your services are no longer required. The salt mine has been closed'."

That's the idea here in what we call First Peter, as well, in these words that many of us heard this past Sunday in worship. Our release from captivity is already accomplished. God doesn't dangle redemption out in front of us like a carrot to a harnessed donkey, saying, "If you work hard enough for long enough, there will be a treat in store for you," but rather, "You can rest already--I've already redeemed you."

Frankly, that's just the opposite of how so much of life in this world works. For centuries, people found themselves in debt-slavery [or, politely, "indentured servitude"] where the hope of being freed was contingent on doing enough labor from the one who held your contract. In our day and age, people find themselves burdened with huge student loans that keep them struggling along for decades with the hope that one day, they might be able to climb out from under the mountain of debt they are struggling with. Companies tell employees to keep working loyally, and eventually [after they've "paid their dues"] they'll be promoted to a corner office or a better salary... only to find that the pay-off keeps getting pushed further into the future. We are used to those kinds of arrangements, where the hope of release or freedom or "making it" is held out in front of us as something just over the horizon, but that we never seem quite able to reach, like chasing after the setting sun. But the God we meet in the Scriptures doesn't work that way--from God's standpoint, we are already free.  Like Jesus says, "A slave does not have a permanent place in the household, but the Son does.  So if the Son makes you free, you are free indeed."

And that, dear ones, is because God doesn't view us as a means toward an end, but as people worthy of love apart from what we can "do" for God or what God can "get" out of us.  That's the difference, too, between being an employee who is valued for your productivity versus being a part of a family, in which your value is inherent just in your being you. When you are working for a company or trying to pay off an indentured servitude contract, your worth is tied up in how you can benefit the boss. Your work has a cash value to it, and you matter only insofar as that relationship is profitable to the ones holding the contracts. But God's love doesn't hold debts against us like that, and God doesn't see us in terms of what God can "get" out of us. God's love--like all genuine love--seeks our flourishing, not our financial contributions to the bottom line. And so from God's vantage point, the only thing love can do is to declare us already freed, rather than holding our release hostage as something we have to work for or earn. You are already freed, and God has paid whatever price was necessary to accomplish it. God has paid that price in Christ, because God loves you.

Today, we are called to step out into the world taking God's gift of freedom seriously--knowing that God has already secured our release, and there are no strings or fine print. And then, for others around us still stuck in the old mindset of thinking that God is just one more boss or master to be impressed, we are sent to bring the same message First Peter gave to us: you are already set free.

Lord Jesus, let us dare to live in the freedom you have already accomplished for us.

More Present, Not Less--April 22, 2026

More Present, Not Less--April 22, 2026

"As they came near the village toward which they were going, [the risen Jesus] walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, 'Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.' So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and give it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, 'Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?' That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, 'The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!' Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread." (Luke 24:28-35)

Maybe it's not enough for us just to say that Jesus is risen--maybe we need to add to that confession that he keeps showing up.

There is a long-standing tradition in church circles that in these days of Easter, we exchange a greeting that is borrowed from the end of this story. It's a sort of call-and-response that starts with, "Christ is risen!" to which the reply answers, "He is risen indeed!" But maybe we should be clear about what it means to say that Jesus is risen, because it would be easy to treat those words as just a statement that Jesus is gone, and up in some distant heaven somewhere. We need to be clear, like the two disciples from the Emmaus road story, that not only is Jesus alive, but he won't stay put, because he keeps finding us gathered around tables and showing up in the flesh. (In fact, in the very next verse from Luke's gospel, after having appeared to the two disciples on the road and at their dinner table, Jesus appears once again, now for the whole group of apostles, and eats some more with them. This was a very full day for Jesus!)

For the early church, the confession that Jesus is risen wasn't just a way of saying he wasn't in the grave anymore, nor did it just mean that Jesus was off somewhere away and unavailable. They didn't tell other people as they shared their faith, "We believe in Jesus as our Lord, and he's alive, but you can never see, meet, or experience him, because he's evaporated and conveniently went to an unreachable, unverifiable heaven." That kind of talk sounds rather like the old "I have a girlfriend, but she lives in Canada, so you can never meet her or see her" line that never really convinces anybody.

No, for the first Christians, saying that Jesus is risen also means that Jesus reserves the right to keep showing up among us, often when and where we least expect it. But definitely at the table.

That turns out to be a really important idea for us still, now some two thousand years after that first Easter evening, because we keep gathering around the Table of Jesus, and we keep discovering that Jesus shows up there. In all seriousness, that's what we (at least in the tradition to which I belong as a Lutheran Christian, among other branches of the Christian family tree) believe happens when we break the bread and pour the cup that is called Holy Communion. We dare to believe that the same risen Christ who showed up on his own initiative at the table with the two disciples on the Emmaus Road, and then later crashed the party around the table for the rest of the disciples, too, keeps showing up at our Tables, too. And like Cleopas and his traveling companion discover, we keep finding Jesus' presence is revealed in the breaking of the bread, too.

That means when we gather, we aren't just remembering or reciting a story about a past event. We aren't merely enacting a ritual--we are being fed by the very presence of Jesus. He is really there, and he is really real. If that makes us uncomfortable, maybe we should recall that the Christian story centers on the idea that no less than God became flesh in the person of Jesus--that in the human life of this Palestinian Jew, there is both humanity in all of its earthy messiness and God in all of God's divine holiness. And if we don't blush about that (or at least if we are prepared to get some weird looks from others over the idea that God really knows what it is like to sweat, to be tired, to be lonely, and to be potty-trained) then it's no more scandalous, really to say that Jesus keeps showing up, really and truly, in the breaking of the bread. It's no stranger to say that the bread and the cup also bring us the body of blood of Christ than it is to say that Jesus Christ is fully God and fully human. Our faith is an incarnational one, and Easter doesn't change that. Just because Jesus is risen from the dead doesn't mean that God stops caring about bodies, showing up in the physical, or loving and honoring the earthiness and physicality of the universe God made.

So let me suggest something. Instead of seeing Easter as Jesus' exit strategy for getting out of this physical world full of flesh and blood, of sweat and suffering, maybe we need to see it as just the opposite: as the way Jesus can now be present all over creation all at once--at a dinner table in Emmaus, back in Jerusalem on the same evening, and at our Tables, too, all around the world. Instead of seeing the resurrection as Jesus' farewell to the slings and arrows of this world so he can "go to a better place," maybe we should honestly say that Easter is what allows Jesus to be present among us in every corner of the world, from the gilded altars and carved stone buildings of the richest cathedrals to the modest accommodations of the country church with an outhouse in the back, to the kitchen table of a poor homebound lady whose house reeks of fly strips and a dozen unkempt animals, to the hospital tray table of a dying man in the ICU, to the saints gathered under the blistering sun in refugee camps or forced from their homes and churches in war zones while holding onto their faith that Christ is with them there as they break the bread and pass the cup.  The found family of Jesus is in all of those places, at all sorts of tables, and so that means Jesus himself will be found in all those gatherings in the breaking of the bread. Easter means that Jesus is more present to this physical, hurting, broken, bleeding world, not less.

Maybe today it is worth having our eyes open to see Christ's presence still, even in such seemingly common elements as bread from someone's oven and wine in a clay cup.

Maybe from there, we will learn to spot his real presence in all sorts of unexpected places we didn't think a respectable God would dare show up in. There may be places we think are so dirty, so disreputable, so dangerous and risky that we think Jesus wouldn't be caught dead there, but that's not an issue for Jesus. He is alive--so every corner of the universe, and every table, too, is fair game for him to show up. May our eyes be opened to spot him.

Lord Jesus, open our eyes to see you in the breaking of the bread... and everywhere else you choose to be seen.

A New Story for Slow Hearts--April 21, 2026

A New Story for Slow Hearts--April 21, 2026

"Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, 'Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?' He asked them, 'What things?' They replied, 'The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see him.' Then he said to them, 'Oh, how foolish you are and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?' Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures." (Luke 24:18-27)

There is a tension in this part of the story that keeps poking and pulling at me in a way that I think I really need.  At one and the same time, the risen Jesus meets these two despairing disciples precisely where they are, as they are, and also brings them to a new place and a new perspective.  And of course, the same is true today: Christ encounters us with no preconditions, and yet he never leaves us with quite the same viewpoint as when he first found us.

As we continue through this story that many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, it strikes me as important that both things are true simultaneously. Jesus appears but remains unrecognized this far along the way, even though these two disciples are so deeply distraught they don't even realize that Jesus is not only alive, but with them. Jesus doesn't wait until they understand or believe properly first--it is his presence with them that will enable them to understand and to believe.  That's important: Jesus' presence is never a reward for our steady faith or brilliant insight.  He comes to us precisely when we don't get it, when we fail to trust, and when our hearts are so heavy we can't lift them up to God on our own.

These two disciples, Cleopas and his companion, they are stuck in that place of despair because of the story they have accepted--maybe without even knowing that they have accepted it.  They already take it for granted that Jesus couldn't have been the Messiah--the "one to redeem Israel"--because he got crucified, dying a shameful death at the hands of the empire that they expected the Messiah to free them from.  They've heard the reports of the resurrection and the empty tomb, including the fact that some of Jesus' inner circle of disciples corroborated the initial eyewitness story of the women at the tomb, but they still feel disillusioned about Jesus.  The narrative they had had been ingrained with went something like this: "When the Messiah comes, he's going to zap our enemies, kill the Romans, give us power, and make himself king. Since Jesus didn't do those things, but rather in fact seemed to do the opposite of that list, he couldn't have been The One we were waiting for."  Or, in other words, "We must have been wrong about Jesus, because Jesus didn't do what we expected the Messiah to do."  They are heartbroken, not only because they are still pretty well convinced that Jesus is still dead, but because they feel like they bet on the wrong horse. They were expecting revenge, or at least glorious triumph, and so far, it sure looks like the oppressive powers of the day are still calling the shots.

It is at this point that the Stranger on the road (who is, of course, the risen Jesus) speaks up more directly. So far he's basically been just a good listener--asking them questions, letting them vent what they needed to vent, and walking beside them.  But now it has become clear that Cleopas and his friend are ensnared in the wrong story.  They are held captive by their perspective, and they can't see a way forward because they can't make sense of a Messiah who saves through suffering rather than showing off.  To borrow the old line from the band U2, they are "stuck in a moment, and now they can't get out of it."  The Unrecognized Jesus speaks up, then, to give them a new way of looking at things.  He gives them a new story for their slow hearts.  

"How foolish and slow of heart you are!" the Stranger says, insisting that the problem was never with Jesus, but rather with their expectations.  The two walking disciples had assumed that the Messiah was going to be a conquering king or a military commander, destroying their enemies in the name of God. The Risen Jesus shows them that this was a misreading, both of their own Scriptures and of the character of God.  From Jesus' perspective, God's way of saving has always been about self-giving and suffering love rather than vengeance and vanquishing enemies.  They just couldn't see it, but Jesus helps them to see a different way of telling the story.

From this new perspective, the cross isn't the place of defeat, but rather the point at which God's saving love triumphs.  Jesus' willingness to lay down his life, praying forgiveness even for his enemies and executioners, is not a sign that he was weak; it is the definitive sign of his enduring strength. Jesus shows Cleopas--and us as well--that we have been misreading the story. And with that, he opens up an entirely new way for all of us to understand the Scriptures.  Once we see what Jesus has been showing us, we realize that it's been there all along, but we couldn't recognize it (much like Jesus himself on the road).  If we didn't see it before, Jesus helps us now to recognize what was true all along. God has been the gracious giver, the merciful forgiver, the lover of enemies, the healer of the broken. If we expected God's Chosen One to become a violent bully or warlord, we have misunderstood who God is.

With that change of perspective, now Cleopas and his companion (and us, reading their story) can at last move forward.  The new story gives us a new way of making sense of the world.  The perspective of God's triumph through the cross, rather than in spite of the cross, changes everything. And now it becomes clear: the lack of an armed attack on Rome, led by General Jesus, is not a failure on Jesus' part, but rather makes total sense. God's way had always been about suffering love, so the Messiah's way of saving and setting things right shouldn't have looked like a sneak attack but surprising love.  God's plan hadn't been derailed or defeated; they had just misunderstood what it was the whole time.  A new story to make sense of the data in front of them opened up a way to take the next step on the journey.

Truth be told, if we are going to continue on our journeys with Jesus in this life, we should be prepared for something similar to happen.  Jesus will absolutely meet us where we are, as we are, even for all the ways we've got it wrong and missed the point.  But when he meets us, Jesus reserves the right to change our perspective, correct our misguided vision, and help us get to know God all over again. If we have been suckered into that tempting (but definitely wrong) thinking that God's plan is to raise up someone to zap enemies, conquer the world, and build an empire like the previous ones of history, Jesus has come to free us from that illusion. Instead, he shows us that God's way has always been cruciform love that reaches out to transform even enemies.  If our hearts have been slow like Cleopas and his companion, Jesus reserves the right to give us a new story to bring us up to speed.

How might Jesus be at work already, changing our perspective and how we face the world?

What might it look like for us to let Jesus give us a new way of seeing the world--through his cross?

Lord Jesus, make our hearts to beat in time with yours, and our eyes to see the world from your perspective.

Meeting Us On the Way--April 20, 2026

Meeting Us On the Way--April 20, 2026

"Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, 'What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?' They stood still, looking sad..." (Luke 24:13-17)

I know this isn't the end of the story. And yes, I know that usually, when someone points out "Hey, this isn't the end of the story," it's because they want to jump ahead to the part that is yet to be told. The kids get scared in the middle of the story, so you skip past the bit with the wolf right to the happy ending with the woodcutter. (Or they start to yawn with boredom in the story, so you skip ahead past the exposition to the next exciting bit of swashbuckling or magical happenings.)

We church folk do it, too. The quintessential case in point is the slogan, "It's Friday... but Sunday's coming!" that you sometimes will see posted on social media or church signs when folks don't want to dwell on the scandal, the sadness, and the cruelty of God on a cross. At its best, that motto, "...but Sunday's coming!" is a reminder that death doesn't get the last word. But when we get sloppy, lazy, or scared, that becomes away of fast-forwarding through the parts we don't like, or the elements of the story that make us squirm, and to skip ahead to the happy ending. At its worst, it shows up in the terrible practice of skipping Good Friday altogether and jumping right from a happy parade celebration on Palm Sunday to smiling happy angel faces (no weeping women, of course--they are edited out of the picture, too) on Easter Sunday. If that isn't the way popular religion tries to handle the cross, I'll eat my hat.

But for a moment, stay with me here (to borrow a phrase from later in the scene). Stay with me in this part of the story we often call the Walk to Emmaus, before we get to the realization that the seemingly uninformed stranger really has been Jesus all along. Stay with me in this moment before the happy ending, before Cleopas and his companion (wife? roommate?) realize that their hearts were burning within them while Jesus spoke, and before the famous line from the last line of this episode, "The Lord is risen indeed!"

Stay with me to consider what it means that, before Cleopas and company are ready to believe it, Jesus shows up anyhow. Stay here for a moment and let's allow it to sink in that the risen Jesus neither waits for an invitation nor demands a sure enough faith before he will make an appearance. Let's just let it percolate through our theological systems that Jesus invites himself into the situation first because the two travelers on the road are too scared, too hopeless, too dense, or too heartbroken to ever dare to believe that the rabbi was alive again without help.

We usually get it backwards, we religious folks. We tend to think (and often put this into pamphlets, tracts, and best-selling titles in the "Christianity" section) that Jesus is more than glad to come into someone's life, provided that they (1) take the first step of inviting him into their lives, (2) can correctly and completely articulate a faith-statement of correct propositional statements about Jesus, and (3) are now going to leave behind all their doubts and sadness in exchange for a permanent smile that does wonders for the church's P.R. But that is exactly NOT how this story goes.

No, instead, Jesus meets the travelers on the road exactly when they can't believe the resurrection news, and he breaks into their conversation to help them understand what has happened without being invited first. Jesus takes the first step when we are too chicken-hearted to take it ourselves. Jesus opens our minds and clarifies our vision when we do not see clearly or understand what to believe. And the fact that these two travelers are on the verge of hopelessness--even though they have already heard the women's report that the tomb was empty--doesn't prevent Jesus from sharing their walk and their heartache.

And this is what gives me such hope when I am on the verge of hopelessness, too: Jesus shows up even for folks who know the Easter message but are still trudging through despair. This story is set on the evening of that first Easter Sunday, and as Luke tells it, Cleopas has heard the report from Mary and the other women that an angel of God vouched for Jesus' resurrection. That means, the hopelessness of Cleopas and his companion isn't a matter of a lack of information or up-to-dat news. They have come through the news of Easter morning and are still despondent--and now they are running out of daylight on Sunday, and Monday's coming. But Jesus makes a special trip to see them... and he stays with them to lay the groundwork that will enable them to believe. And he does it even though they already had the "news" that Jesus was alive.

Jesus meets us where we are at--on the way. He walks with us for the journey we are actually taking--not one prescribed by where a religious pamphlet tells us we are supposed to be. And he makes it possible for us to face returning to life on the other side of Sunday. He knows that Monday's coming, too, and that we need to be prepared to face how we live in a world where it sure looks like death is still calling the shots.

So yeah, there's more to the story here--and more even than just the happy ending when the risen Christ is revealed "in the breaking of the bread." There will be Sunday night, and Monday, and its night, too, and a whole new week and lifetime beyond that. And not all of that will be sunshine and gumdrops. In fact, a lot of it will be kind of heartbreaking. (As the wise line from The Princess Bride puts it, "Life is pain, your highness--anyone who says differently is selling something.") But what lets us face this day is not simply a one-time message, but a Christ who keeps on showing up and inviting himself into our heartbreaks to help us sort through them, to walk with us in them, and to invite himself into the mess in our minds before we have had the wisdom or courage to ask him in.

This is really where all the "You have to ask Jesus into your heart first" stuff out there just comes completely unglued. Because if you actually read the stories, it's just the opposite. We keep carrying our fear and sorrow, which keeps us from ever daring to ask Jesus in the first place, and he just invites himself into our mess and goes to work on us. And because we know he is willing to meet us in our confusion, grief, and fear, we know he will keep on being with us when Sunday turns to Monday again and we have to head back into the regular routines and expectations of the day.

So, to be sure, there's more to the story. Some of it will have a happy ending moment on Sunday. But Monday's coming, too--and now that it is here, the same Jesus who met us in our fear and sadness on the way will keep walking with us through it all on this day, too.

Lord Jesus, keep showing up in our midst, even before we have invited you in--so that we will recognize you, listen to you, and let you kindle our hearts in this moment.

A Strategy of Joy--April 17, 2026

A Strategy of Joy--April 17, 2026

"In this you rejoice, even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith—being more precious than gold that, though perishable, is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.  Although you have not seen him, you love him, and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy, for you are receiving the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your very selves." (1 Peter 1:6-9)

Easter people laugh.

We laugh, not because we are trying to pretend that rotten things don't happen in the world. They do. They happen to everybody, and they happen to us, who are a smaller subset within "everybody." Easter people laugh even while it is also true that we are called to weep with those who weep.

But we laugh because the resurrection of Jesus gives us the ability to disarm the powers of death and sin and cruelty. The resurrection gives us a way to see the worst that they can do, and still say back, almost tauntingly, "You do not get the last word."

Laughter, then, for the followers of Jesus, isn't a distraction, or a way of ignoring the awful things, the sadness, the injustice, the brokenness, and the violence of the world. Laughter becomes our way, or as First Peter here says it, "rejoicing" is our way, because we are in on the great cosmic eternal joke that death thought it had won over Jesus the innocent victim, but resurrection shows death that it has been duped. The powers that killed Jesus were fooled into thinking they got the last word, too. The rulers of the day were convinced that they could make an example of Jesus and silence any opposition... but the rolled-away stone shows us that they could not stop his momentum. And still today, laughter is our way of disarming and disrupting the dismal dark.

I am reminded of a remark Mel Brooks would often make in interviews, when people would ask about the repeated habit he has of making fun of Hitler and the Nazis in his movies and comedy. Whether it's the all out parody musical "Springtime for Hitler" in The Producers, or the shots he takes in History of the World, Part One, or wherever else in his movies you find it, Mel Brooks has often said that laughing at Hitler is part of what undercuts the power of his hate and cruelty all these decades later. When The Producers was being adapted from a movie into a stage show in the early 2000s, he gave an interview where he said, for example, "by using comedy, we can rob Hitler of his posthumous power and myths."

In other words, without denying the atrocities of what evil can do, one kind of effective resistance is to poke fun, to laugh, to ridicule the powers that think they are in total control. By using laughter to combat the powers of the day, their insecurity is revealed, and we point to another, truer, Power--the power of abundant life, the power of resurrection, the power of the risen Jesus.  Because of Jesus' resurrection that broken open the worst that the powers of the day could do to Jesus (hanging him on a cross), we, too, can practice a strategy of joy.

First Peter calls us to that kind of response to evil, to suffering, and to the powers of cruelty and death. We will "rejoice"--which is to say, we will laugh--and get under the thin skin of the those powers, and unmask them as impostors. First Peter says that the resurrection gives us the kind of hope it takes to learn to rejoice in the midst of suffering, even of persecution, and to let that joyful laughter be part of our resistance against death, against greed, against sin, and against cruelty.

This is critical, and this is revolutionary, if you think about it. Our own gut tendency is to want to get very serious in the face of the powers that persecute. We can even think that we have to respond to the mean-spirited anger of those powers with more mean-spirited anger of our own. In the first century when First Peter was written, there was the specter of official persecution from the empire, and of unofficial persecution from local pockets of people who didn't like these Christ-followers. There were people in the administration of the empire who were trying to stamp out early Christianity, and there were others who just viewed Christ-followers with suspicion (us and our crazy way of including poor and rich, free and slave, men and women, like those old boundaries and distinctions do not hold anymore!). From the beginning, Christians have lived in cultures that were hostile in varying degrees. But First Peter's word to us is that we aren't supposed to make a fuss and insist on official protection from that hostility. Followers of Jesus are not supposed to go around complaining that it's not fair, or that we should be free from the persecution. And we are certainly not called to spend our energy trying to make things "easier" for ourselves--that just smacks of self-serving and self-interest and the impulse to stay comfortable. Instead, First Peter says, our calling in the midst of hostility is to rejoice--to laugh. Laughing provokes bullies to overplay their hand. Laughing shrugs off whatever angry threats the powers of the day will make. Laughing strips them of their power... and instead, finds joyful hope in the resurrection.

For followers of Jesus two thousand years later, we still struggle with the question of how to live in a wider culture that doesn't often line up with the things we believe Jesus is teaching us to hold dear. Much like in the first century Roman Empire, sometimes the tension is with the official powers who govern, and sometimes it is from being at odds with the general "feel" or atmosphere of culture at large. And, yeah, sometimes we run the risk of standing out from the crowd, or saying unpopular things. But First Peter calls us, like he is simply following Jesus' lead, to rejoice in the midst of being rejected by others--to laugh in the midst of it all. We don't go looking for special treatment, or for special protection, and we don't expect to get an easy time with the powers of the day. Instead, in the face of the mean-spirited bluster of the bullies of the day, the community of Jesus dares to rejoice, and we take away the power that was meant to make us afraid. And so we laugh.

Today, laugh. Laugh full and deep. Because you and I are in on the biggest punch-line in the history of the universe. We are Easter people.

Lord Jesus, give us the courage to be joyful in this day, confident that you will not let despair get the last word.