It’s the seventh Sunday of Easter. That’s it. The Easter Season is over. But, I don’t want it to end. I want this resurrection feeling to continue. It’s not the reason that our Wednesday morning Bible study started reading these gospels from outside of the Biblical canon, but it could be.

Seven weeks after the resurrection, it’s that Easter feeling that we want to hold onto. And so, today, we’ll turn to these words from the second century used by a Christian community in Syria. We don’t really know much about this text. Both the beginning and the end are missing but we share these words today because we’re not ready for this resurrection feeling to end. So, we wait for what God will share with us in the last ten verses of the Gospel of Peter. Let us pray for illumination as we hear these new words…

[50] Now at the dawn of the Lord’s Day Mary Magdalene, a female disciple of the Lord (who, afraid because of the Jews since they were inflamed with anger, had not done at the tomb of the Lord what women were accustomed to do for the dead beloved by them), [51] having taken with her women friends, came to the tomb where he had been placed. [52] And they were afraid lest the Jews should see them and were saying, ‘If indeed on that day on which he was crucified we could not weep and beat ourselves, yet now at his tomb we may do these things. [53] But who will roll away for us even the stone placed against the door of the tomb in order that, having entered, we may sit beside him and do the expected things? [54] For the stone was large, and we were afraid lest anyone see us. And if we are unable, let is throw against the door what we bring in memory of him; let us weep and beat ourselves until we come to our homes.’
[55] And having gone off, they found the [tomb] opened. And having come forward, they bent down there and saw there a certain young man seated in the middle of the [tomb], comely and clothed with a splendid robe, who said to them: [56] ‘Why have you come? Whom do you seek? Not that one who was crucified? He is risen and gone away. But if you do not believe, bend down and see the place where he lay, because he is not here. For he is risen and gone away to there whence he was sent.’ [57] Then the women fled frightened.
[58] Now it was the final day of the Unleavened Bread; and many went out returning to their home since the feast was over. [59] But we twelve disciples of the Lord were weeping and sorrowful; and each one, sorrowful because of what had come to pass, departed to his home. [60] But I, Simon Peter, and my brother Andrew, having taken our nets, went off to the sea. And there was with us Levi of Alphaeus whom the Lord …

It’s familiar enough. You’ve heard a version of this story before about how Mary and her friends go to prepare Jesus’ body. How shocked they are to find the tomb open so they peer into the tomb — in a manner that you’ve heard before — to discover a “certain young man” “clothed with a splendid robe.” And he asks them why they’ve come.

What a great question! Why have they come? In the Gospel of Peter, the author is really explicit. The women have come to prepare the body. It’s something that they have to do by Jewish custom in just this way. It’s why they’ve come, but it’s not a question that remains neatly within this narrative. It’s one that leaps off the page for us to wonder together: Why have you come? What are you looking for?

Seven weeks later, we’re still looking. We’re still trying to figure it out. No matter what has happened or how much time has passed, we still want to find resurrection in impossible places — tombs, governments and ghettos. It’s why we’ve come. It’s why we continue to come. We know how crushing the world can be. We’re not naïve. But, we want resurrection.

It’s why we’ve come.
Because we’ve heard how tombs remain sealed.
Because we have heard how governments fail.
Because we’ve heard that the ghetto will never get any better, but we don’t pay that much mind.
We believe that there is another way.

We are not naïve. We know that there are women like Lupe hiding in East LA confessing to her friends, “I am very afraid for myself and my children, what are we going to do?” We know that these same friends nod their heads. They have seen the shootings and beatings. They’ve watched the drug sales and muggings happen from their front porches. We can only imagine how impossible that reality feels when they open their Bibles to read about the fear the disciples felt when Jesus walked on the sea. They know that fear. This isn’t some idle tale.

It’s so real that one of the women in that Bible Study finally says, “I think that the sea is the [ghetto] at night… and the wind is the gang kids with their drugs and their guns. If we had faith, we wouldn’t be afraid of walking past them, or to ask them not to disturb us?” That’s when it happened. Resurrection in the ghetto. Because then these women organized. They had a plan. They each sat on their porch at the same time each week – and the impossible happened. The gang kids left.

That might be how it happens in East LA – but we’ve come because we want to know how it will happen in our impossible places. We want details. We want a plan. We want it all explained so that we know how and when we will act, because we have no idea how to organize for our resurrection. But, that might be why we need another story from outside the Bible we know, because this one actually attempts to explain the resurrection. It’s the most detailed account ever found – but it doesn’t happen in these 10 verses. It doesn’t happen with the women. It happens before.

It happens like this: So, it happened that when the Lord’s Day dawned (after the tomb had carefully been sealed with seven wax seals), there was a loud voice from heaven. The heavens opened and two guys “who had much radiance” came down from heaven to the tomb. Those seven wax seals didn’t stand a chance. The stone rolled away by itself so that these two radiant men strode easily into the tomb. It doesn’t say what happened in the tomb but these guys come back out with a cross following them (it may also interest you that this same floating cross will start talking soon). And then, an angel stretches his body from heaven to earth something like Gumby. And that’s it! Resurrection.

Now, this might fascinate you. You might want to dwell here to more fully understand how you can be more like the Gumby angel or what the cross says, but this is not what fascinates me most about this gospel. What intrigues me is what happens at the end: Peter, Andrew, Levi and maybe a few others take up their nets and went off to the sea. Theres nothing about fishers of people or making disciples of all nations. They just go off to sea. Why? Is it the place that they know best? Is it the impossible place they want to change? Why do they go off to the sea?

But, you know, don’t you? It’s why you’ve come. You came seeking something and whatever it is that you need to find – whether it’s hope or love or the ability to stretch your body like Gumby – you’ll know when you’ve found it. You might still be weeping. You may still feel twinges of sorrow but you’ll know if you found it because it’s the very thing that allows you to go off into that sea, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?

It’s not just that you go. This isn’t some joy ride around Casco Bay. You’re not doing this for fun. This is something that you need to do. It’s why you came in the first place. Because you know how crushing the world can be. You know when your rights have been denied. You know when your neighbor isn’t protected. You know when the streets don’t feel safe anymore. It’s why you came. Not to hear some idle tale that has no meaning in your life. You came because you needed to find some way to change the impossible — the tombs, the governments, the ghettos of your heart. You already know that no one else thinks it can happen. But you do. You believe there’s another way. It’s why you’ve come.

So, how do we do it? How do we find the courage of Peter, Andrew or Levi to go off to the sea? We know that we need to go. It’s something that we need to do but how will we find the courage?

For Maurice Sendak, the author of Where the Wild Things Are, this was the ultimate question. It’s the question he tried to answer with every story he told. He once explained it to a reporter for The New Yorker like this:

“When my brother Jack died, I wanted to do something extraordinary for him. Five years later, I had an idea. The poem I wrote was very dark. I hope to finish it. But even if I don’t finish it, or publish it, I did it. [The] question is ‘Why do you live?’” [Sendak] paused [and then continued]. “The illustrations keep bubbling out.”
It’s the reason you’ve come. It’s why we are here. We’ve come looking for something. We don’t know how or why, but the illustrations keep bubbling out. It’s why we need to go out to sea. We need to feel the salt upon our faces. We need to be restored by the crashing waves. We need to remember why we live so that we might live again.

This just seems so odd. It seems strange to share this speech now. The resurrection happened five weeks ago — and here we are remembering the words that Jesus said as he prepared for his own death. In this particular gospel, Jesus has a lot to say before he dies. Without taking a single breathe, he talks his way through four straight chapters. It began in the previous chapter — and it will be another two chapters before Jesus says all that he needs to say. But its strange to read these words now. It seems so odd to have experienced this wonderful thing together only to go backwards. It seems bizarre to share in this miraculous event only to scratch our heads to say, “Wait. What was it he said?”

He began by assuring them that their hearts should not be troubled. Then, he tried to explain how this Advocate, this Holy Spirit (which they have surely never heard of before), will come and make everything clearer. And, if that doesn’t totally confound the disciples, he continues his speech by describing himself as a vine. Now, c’mon. That’s just bizarre. Who in the world would ever describe themselves as a vine?

Well, Jesus, as it turns out. This is one of several attempts to try to explain who he is. He will also describe himself as bread, light, a gate, a shepherd — but here, Jesus is the true vine. It’s something he wants the very people who have been his support and his strength to know about him before he dies. It’s something that he can only figure out how to say with the illustration of a vine.

As people that have experienced the resurrection, as the very people that have been transformed by this event, perhaps we read these words because we’re not sure why it ever mattered that Jesus called himself a vine. Of course, we don’t see the world the way that the disciples do. We may have rolled up our sleeves in the garden but there aren’t many of us that are living off the land like those guys did. The metaphor gets a little lost on us — but that seems to be true for every description we try to offer about the resurrection. There aren’t really words to explain it. There’s nothing that really illustrates that transformation. So, as strange as it may be, it seems we must scratch our heads to say, “Wait. What was it he said?”

Because Jesus didn’t just give us the metaphor of a vine. He invited us to remain. He says it seven times. Remain. Stay here. Endure. Hold out. Remain. This is what he told those whom he loved most. This is what he told those that were more than just friends or family. These are the people that were so connected to each other that they literally could not survive without each other. That’s where Jesus hopes the disciples will remain – in the power of that love, in the strength of that bond. Remain. Remain in me, as I will remain in you. Jesus is using this image of a vine full of branches to capture the powerful connection that he shares with the disciples.

I am the true vine, Jesus tells them. You are the branches. There is no option of getting cut off – as much as we might like to make a big deal out of the vineyard keeper. The truth is that that pruning has already happened. You’ve already been changed by these words. You’ve already grown in this faith. You’ve already experienced this love. So, remain because this is where the soil is rich. Remain because this is where the ground is fertile. Remain because this is where you have learned about love. Stay here. Endure. Hold out. Remain because it’s good here.

It’s what Victor Mancini discovers as a small child in the novel Choke. He was eating a “corn dog while it was still too hot” and so he swallowed it whole but it got stuck. He couldn’t breathe or talk and then the “whole restaurant crowded around” him. That’s when he felt it. It was right then. He felt loved. Even though he was choking on a corn dog, it felt like the “whole world cared what happened to him.” Everyone hugged him and patted his hair. He felt so loved. He wanted that moment to last forever.

And he tries. As a grown man, he would repeat this accident over and over again. He would choke on his food in the middle of a restaurant so that he could feel that again. So that he could feel like the whole world cared. But it never really works because as much as Victor wants to be loved, he doesn’t really want to risk the possibility of loving anyone else. He wants to remain. He knows it’s good here but he doesn’t really understand that it’s not just a connection to the vine — but also a connection to each branch and every grape. He doesn’t get to pick and choose. No one does. If you’re connected, you’re connected to it all. Of course, as Victor knows, that’s intense. It’s risky. It’d be easier to cut yourself off.

It’s understandable reaction — because this is really overwhelming. It may be easier to just cut yourself off but it seems that’s why Jesus likes this metaphor. He wants you to remember that the best grapes are closest to the vine. You have to be close. You can’t get that far away. You’re a branch. You’re connected. You’re rooted in this vine. Jesus invites you to hold on. Remain in me as I remain in you.

These are more than Jesus’ words. These are the words that we should be saying to each other: Remain in me as I remain in you. It’s a risk. It’s a huge risk but maybe it’s really true that we can’t live without each other. Maybe this is where we will really grow. Maybe here — in this church family — we might learn more about love. Maybe that’s why we need to read these words in the weeks after Easter. We forget that the miracle isn’t some fantastic event five weeks ago, but something that happens every time we realize how connected we are. Maybe we need these words to remember to say them to each other: Remain in me as I in you.

1 John 3:16-24

Here we are in the third week of Easter. I love the old-fashioned name for this season, “Easter-tide.” The high tide moment of the whole Christian year is Easter, when we tell the story again of the women discovering Jesus’ empty tomb. Then, like the ocean’s tide, the Easter tide rolls out from that moment, and slowly, but profoundly, changes everything.

I once sat for a long time, trying to see the moment when the tide changed in a small cove off the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia, site of the world’s largest tides. The day before, we had easily seen the profound change caused by the outgoing tide by visiting at high tide, then coming back six hours later to look again. At high tide, there was no beach, simply a small inlet, ringed with trees growing right up to the water’s edge. By low tide, a large bay and a beach a quarter-mile wide had appeared, and those same trees were now clinging to the tops of cliffs as tall as six story buildings.

But if you sit and stay to try to watch the change, it’s hard to see much happening from one moment to the next. Just one small wave after another.

That’s how it is, I think, with Easter. The Easter-tide rolls out from the empty tomb. It washes over the doubts of the disciple Thomas. It flows through the upper room where other disciples are hiding and overcomes their fear and grief. It rolls on over the road to Emmaus, and eventually into all the corners of the Empire, and changes everything. Eventually, somehow, it reaches the shores of our own hearts and of our own church. Often, the Easter-tide effect can’t be seen or felt in any single moment, and yet it can still, over time, change lives.

Our scripture today is a letter to a group of small churches about a century after the women found the empty tomb, from someone who was trying to describe how to see with our own eyes the difference Easter makes in the world. He says the key to Easter’s power is God’s self-giving love: “we know love by this, that he gave his life for us.” A little further in his letter, John puts it even more simply and directly, in what I think is one of the most beautiful and powerful verses in the Bible: “God,” he says, “is Love.” God is Love. Love is God.

If that is true, then if you’re searching for God, what you should be looking for is evidence of self-giving love – not just in words, but love in truth and love in action. Where such Love is, says John, there is Christ Risen. Where such Love is, there is the church as it was meant to be.

Where such Love is, there God abides. “Abide” is another wonderful old word, like “Easter-tide.” These days, no one who wanted to know your address would ask, “where do you abide?” But “to abide” does mean “to dwell,” with a sense of permanence about it. God abiding in us means more than a passing emotion or even a moment of mystical insight. It’s more than the words of any doctrine or creed can ever express. God abiding in us is Love dwelling in us — subtle, powerful, life-changing.

The 20th century Christian philosopher Simone Weil, put it this way: “God created through Love and for Love. God did not create anything except love itself, and the means to love, and beings capable of love, from all possible distances.”

Our letter-writer John says there are two parts to this Love – God’s for us and ours for others, especially those in need. The two parts are so essential to each other they can’t be separated. To say they are like two sides of the same coin doesn’t really capture it. The image that comes to my mind is a very modern one: the double-helix, like a DNA molecule — two strands intertwined, intricate, essential to life. Love that lays down its life for others is the DNA of the church.

John’s letter gives a powerful example of what this Love might look like in action: God’s love cannot abide, he says, in anyone who has the world’s goods but refuses to give them away to help a brother or sister in need. Certainly, this is exactly what makes the Community Crisis Ministry here at our church a true ministry to all of us – not only to those we help but to all of us who support this program with our gifts and prayers. This ministry gives us a chance to open a space in our midst for God’s love to abide.

But this scripture says God’s love abiding within us is about more that sharing our worldly goods with those in need. John was writing to a group of churches that felt threatened with extinction from overwhelming outside pressures. And yet still, he told them: “he laid down his life for us, we ought to lay down our lives for one another.”

What could this idea possibly have to do with us, here on the safe and distant shores of North America in the 21st century? Well, the truth is that the old forms of church we’re all familiar with are passing away in our generation. Already, here in northern New England, fewer people attend church weekly than in any region of the country. The fastest growing group in Maine are those who consider themselves “spiritual but not religious.” The mainstream churches are finding it harder to maintain the old, outward forms of church – the big 19th century buildings, the large professional staffs, the denominational offices.

But, I think John’s prescription is still the right one. I believe that in the years to come we will see new life arising in the churches – precisely at those points and exactly in those ways where the we figure out how to lay down the church’s life for others.

There will be lots of ideas about how to do this and what this means. But I’d like to offer just one this morning, and to illustrate it I want to share a story with you, a folk tale that originated in Africa, I’m told.

Once there was a village of people who lived beside a river. One day, the people saw something come floating down the river. It turned out to be several life rafts, carrying people who were wounded and starving. The villagers waded out into the river, grabbed the life rafts and pulled them in. They gave them food and shelter and care. The next day, the villagers were amazed to see another, larger bunch of life rafts coming downstream toward them, with even more people. Again, they pulled them in and cared for them. This went on the next day as well, and the next, each time, more and more people in need came down the river, storm-tossed and suffering.

The villages’ resources were starting to feel the strain. They held a village meeting. Some argued for ignoring the next batch of life-rafts that came by. We’ve done all we can, they said, what more could be expected of us. Some said, who are these people anyway? They are strangers, not one of us, why should we have to get stuck with helping them? They argued long into the night until finally, one wise person stood up and said, maybe tomorrow, first thing, a bunch of us should go upstream together and find out what is causing these people to become wounded and hungry and homeless and see if we can stop it. And so they did.

At the Maine Council of Churches, we use this story a lot to describe what we think the calling of the churches is now. We call it doing “doing upstream ministry.” Many of you as individuals do this sort of upstream ministry every day in your own lives. But I want to suggest that we as a congregation could do more to go upstream together. That because of the Community Crisis Ministry and our other outreach programs here, we have a calling to do so.

Our scripture today says we are to love not in mere words and speech but “in truth and in action.” But speaking the truth to power is one of the most important actions we can take on behalf of our brothers and sisters in need.

Because the truth is: one in eight Maine families is living in poverty today. One in six of our children, one in ten of our senior citizens are poor. For a family of three, which is the average family size in Maine, that means living on about $19,000 a year. The truth is that here in Maine we just took away health care coverage from 14,000 of our low-income neighbors, many of whom suffer from chronic illness. The truth is that virtually everyone we help here at the church has already exhausted their General Assistance benefits before they come to us, but now our legislature is being asked to cut the program even more. The truth is that much of what you hear about cheating and fraud in the welfare system is a myth — every study has shown that the rates of fraud in Maine are actually very low.

There are things that need to be said now, out loud and without fear, by people of faith going upstream together. We are the ones who have felt the effects of the Easter-tide, God’s self-giving love, working in our own hearts. We can do what I call the “ministry of showing up,” bringing an unexpected presence and a moral voice to our civic debates about taxes and public benefits. We are the ones who can say that our incarnational faith teaches us to treat others as persons to be loved, not problems to be solved or wished away. We are the ones who worship a God of abundance. We can say that the truth is, in our rich country, we do have enough for everyone to be fed, to be sheltered and have access to affordable health care. What’s lacking is the moral and political will to make it happen. We can show up and say, we’ve listened carefully to the Sermon on the Mount, and nowhere does Jesus ever say: “blessed are those who pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.”

For each person in need whom we help directly through the Crisis Ministries program there are tens of thousands more whom we could help by going upstream, showing up in the halls of power and speaking the truth our faith has taught us, about how God has something better in mind for humanity than endless competition, winners and losers, haves and have-nots.

What I’ve learned at the Maine Council of Churches is that when people like you do show up and speak out, it makes a difference. Your words are not mere words, because you have loved your brothers and sisters in need in truth and in action. You have a powerful witness to make.

Once the Easter-tide has rolled through, the God who is Love is already at work. Love is calling us to lay down our privilege to remain silent when others are suffering; to lay down our fear of appearing too political; to lay down our suspicion that we are somehow different from those wounded people out on the life rafts. Once the Easter-tide has rolled through, there is no more “them and us.” There is only Christ, the Risen One, who said “the hungry and homeless are me; as you treat them, you are treating me.” Love is calling us to expand, each day, who “counts” in our hearts as a “brother or sister.”

The Easter-tide has rolled through this church. The Community Crisis Ministry is one of the easiest ways to see it at work. If God is Love, then we ourselves can become what so many people, hungry in body and in spirit, are searching for right now: the evidence of Easter — proof you can see and hear and touch — that God is real, that Jesus lives, and that new life is arising, even now, even here, in this very room. Amen.