John 21:1-14
David A. Davis
April 22, 2018
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That night they caught nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Squat. They caught nothing. All night long they were fishing. Nothing. They weren’t fly fishing. They were using those big old nets. These were fishermen. This was not grandparent and grandchild sitting on the dock in the lake in the middle of the day. This wasn’t those guys at the Jersey shore who try to look like they know what they’re doing, surf fishing, casting a line dangerously close to where people are swimming, and catching nothing. This wasn’t a grizzly bear swiping a paw for a salmon. They were fishermen. They would have known if it was too hot or to cold. They knew that Sea of Galilee, that lake, like the back of their hand. This was their livelihood and they were out there all night long and caught nothing.

The Bible doesn’t say how long after that first Easter morning it had been. According to John, Jesus showed his hands and his side to Thomas one week later. All John records here is that it was “after these things.” Sometime after these things. “These things” being a sort of understatement for Jesus rising from the dead. Jesus calling Mary by name. Jesus breathing Holy Spirit on the disciples. Jesus appearing a week later in the same room for Thomas. “These things.”  “After these things.” The next day? Another week? A few weeks later? A handful of the disciples were together when Peter announced he was going fishing and the others decided to join him. All night long. Nothing. It turns out fishing isn’t quite like riding a bike.

Interestingly, in the Gospel of John, this is the first time fishing comes up in reference to the disciples. Tending nets, dropping nets, leaving nets, fishing for people, another miraculous catch, that’s all in the other three gospels. And John doesn’t tell the reader whether Peter was bored or hungry or needed some money. John doesn’t imply that he was waffling on the being sent part, on continuing with proclaiming and living the gospel Christ had taught them. He just said “I’m going fishing.”

But it’s not like fishing was a hobby for them. He wasn’t saying “let’s go play a few holes and take our mind off everything for a while.” The disciples going fishing to relax and blow off steam would be like a bus driver on a day off telling the other drivers he was just going to hop in the bus and drive around a while, or a faculty member in the summer telling some colleagues, “You know, I have missed grading papers, I’m going to go look for some.” No, it wasn’t just looking for something to do. John’s gospel is full of symbols and metaphors and images. Everything means something. If fishing doesn’t come up until now, until after all that resurrection excitement, it has to mean something.

The disciples are no longer in Jerusalem. They are not out on the road. They are back home in Galilee. Fishing on the Sea of Galilee is life. Life, day and night. Everyday life. They’re back at it. Whether that night of fishing was going to be a one-off right from the start or whether a few of them thought about going back to fishing for fish instead of people, they are back at it. Back home. Back to life. Even if just for a moment, back to the everyday, ordinary, run-of-the-mill life. Back to fishing. And… it doesn’t go so well. “That night they caught nothing.”

They were back to the grind. That night they were back to the routine, the back-breaking, sweaty, “cast a net all night long and have nothing to show for it” kind of grind. They didn’t just turn back the clock and go back to their trade, that night was a slice of the hardest, emptiest, soul-draining part of life. Maybe it wasn’t a dark night of the soul kind of thing. But it was a dark night of nothing. A big old cup of nothing. An empty net of life.

And that’s when he showed up. That’s just when the Risen Christ appeared. With the dawn, with the coming of the Light, with the promise of a new day. Christ standing on the shore. “Children, you have no fish, have you?” It would not be very Christ-like for that inquiry to be a bit of a taunt, or some trash talk. “Haha, you didn’t catch any fish!” So how about this, what if it sounded like this: “Hey guys, that really stunk, didn’t it? That was a long night. I’m sorry. Can I help?”

It’s not what first comes to mind when you read that question from the Risen Christ, it’s not what pops into your mind when you hear the tone of his voice in your imagination. “Children, you have no fish, have you?” It’s not your first thought, but that question — his question to the disciples, who rather suddenly found themselves back to the grind, up to their eyeballs in the grind — that question, it’s really a promise. A promise because of his presence. Forget the miraculous catch of fish. Before the miraculous catch of fish, we showed up. Christ showed up. Right then. In the grind. Of course that’s when he showed up. You bet that’s when he showed up. After… these things, and just on the edge of a long dark night of life’s nothing, he showed up.

Years ago I received an email from a Presbyterian ruling elder thousands of miles away from here. Her son was student at the university. He was a junior, a varsity athlete. Things weren’t going well with his playing time, she wrote. He and the coach weren’t getting along. A nagging injury was holding him back. Mom had hunch that maybe class work wasn’t going well either but he wouldn’t talk about it, he wouldn’t talk about anything, really, At least with her. She just knew he was really struggling. “I just want him to know that someone out there cares for him. I want him to know we love him no matter what. I want him to remember that God loves him and that God will see him through.” Her email was less about asking me to do something and more of her offering a prayer. That her son would know God’s presence, God’s promise amid the grind.

A member of my first congregation was a retired gasoline truck driver named Walt. He drove the truck for 30 years. He was a World War II veteran captured at the Battle of the Bulge. He raised five sons. Lost one to death way too young. Those years when I served as a pastor Walt’s rough edges were being worn down by his grandsons who lived a few doors down. They called him Pop. Walt is the one who told me once he wouldn’t buy a new car with automatic windows: “If I am too old to wind down my own window, I’m too old to drive.”

I once stood with him and his wife at his hospital bed while a cardiac surgical resident presented what they needed to do. I offered to leave rather than invoking some kind of pastoral privilege. Walt told the doctor I should stay. He told the doctor I was his son. The doctor then rushed through a conversation about his upcoming by-pass surgery, including drawing pictures, a technique the doctor clearly had not perfected in medical school.

After the doctor left, I ask Walt and Alma what they were thinking, how they were feeling about tomorrow’s surgery. First Walt said, “I didn’t understand one thing the doctor said.” And then he looked at me with some tears in his eyes, and he said, “Davie boy, I learned a long time ago that God is able.”  It was his faith statement paired down, chiseled out, weather-worn by the grind of life. His way of telling me God would be with him, no matter what.

I’ve lost track of all the faith statements I have heard from the children of God over the years that had little to do with doctrine and a lot to do with clinging to God’s promise, God’s presence. Saints in the community of faith, a great cloud of witnesses who have seen and lived more than their share, people who know the world’s shine has long since worn off, the beloved in Christ who rise every day to give a witness to the presence and the power and the meaning of the Risen Christ in their lives and in the world, those who have known the struggle, who have been up to their eyeballs in the earthiness of it all, who know how hard it can be, people who have come face to face with the world’s darkness, who have lived through a long night of nothing and, yet, experienced his presence. “It’s been a long, long night. I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

I just finished teaching Presbyterian Worship this semester over at the seminary. The day we discussed baptism I discovered a wonderful quote from the Directory for Worship, the Book of Order, the Constitution of the PCUSA. A quote about baptism. It said, “No one comes to it alone.” It is an affirmation of the role of parents, family, friends, and the congregation in nurturing faith, supporting the baptized, and surrounding them with our prayers. Part of our prayer, every time we gather at the fount and dip into God’s grace afresh, part of the prayer, it ought to be that you, O Child of God, would know that God is able. That you would carry that promise all of your days.

Today the one being baptized is Edith. An Eastertide baptism. Edith, that you would know on your best days that Christ is risen! Edith, that you will cling, on the hardest days, to the promise, Christ is risen! Edith, on the most ordinary days, amid the routine, when the days fly by and nights are too short, and the pace of it all just flies by, right then, that you would hear that Christ is risen! Edith, that when a day comes or the night lingers, and you’re not sure, or you don’t remember, or you can’t bring yourself to say it, or believe it, or accept it… plenty of folks around here have been there and done that, and we’re going to say it for you. Christ is risen! God is able, child, God is able.

Easter Sundays come and Easter Sundays go. They add up. They all smush together. Sort of a big Easter shout. Christ is risen! But the resurrection promise that lasts forever? God’s promise you will never forget? The promise from the Risen Christ that you cling to and claim and maybe even tell someone about? It’s the one that comes in the grind after Easter.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

John 20:1-18
David A. Davis
April 1, 2018
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I was never very good at memorizing scripture. Actually, I was never very good at quoting chapter and verse either. At my age I figure I’m on the down side of memorizing anything, so I’ve come to terms with it. But I am here to tell you I know every word of every song of the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. There is absolutely no reason to be proud of that. Trust me, it has much less to do with me being a child of the church and much more due to the fact that I grew up in the 70’s. So I am actually looking forward to tonight’s live television production of Jesus Christ Superstar (assuming I can keep my eyes open at all tonight).

Youth leaders and pastors in the 70’s worked very hard to make sure every kid knew the theological and biblical problems with the content of what was called back then “a rock opera.” Right at the top of the list of concerns was that there is no telling, no singing, no account of the resurrection. The production ends with the crucifixion and then an instrumental piece entitled “John 19:41,” which since I don’t memorize chapters and verses I looked up again. The verse tells of the body of Jesus being laid in a garden tomb. No resurrection. No Easter. Jesus Christ Superstar ends in death.

So I was caught off guard when I read of resurrection and new life in an article about tonight’s show. The writer asks a few questions to those who have the lead parts. One of the questions was about their own faith. The singer John Legend, who plays the role of Jesus, tells of growing up in the Pentecostal Church and how his whole family was involved in just about every aspect of church life. Then he says, “but I’m not religious now.” Sara Bareilles, also a well known singer and songwriter, takes the role of Mary Magdalene. She grew up Catholic, went to Catholic School. She says that she has faith and a belief in God and that she looks back on the ritual and comfort of the church with fondness but she doesn’t go to church anymore.

Then there was Alice Cooper. He plays King Herod. For those who didn’t grow up in the 70’s and 80’s Alice Cooper is sort of a grandfather of heavy metal and rock music as performance art. To say he was a character would be a huge understatement. Full makeup, crazy costumes, smashing guitars, very loud music. Listen to what Alice Cooper told that reporter. “I was basically the prodigal child. I grew up in the church, went as far away as you could possibly go, and then came back. When I got sober, I started understanding. I had all the fame and the money and everything that went with it, but I started realizing what was important to me was my relationship with Jesus Christ… I study the Bible every morning. I have a Wednesday morning men’s Bible study. I pray before every show. I go to church every Sunday with my wife and kids. I don’t think I have ever been more happy in my life. People say, ‘Think of all you gave up to be a Christian’… I’m not giving anything up. I’m giving it back, to him.” Alice Cooper, for goodness’ sake.

Meaning and purpose found amid the distant loneliness of prodigal wanderings. New life rising out of the vain, destructive trappings of the world’s allure. The tug of a Spirit-filled joy and happiness and assurance that pulls and pulls against the almost insurmountable riptide of the powers and the principalities of this present darkness. Resurrection hope. It is only to be understood when death and darkness are so real. The promise is to be received when death and darkness are winning, when death and darkness carry the day and define the night. Surrounded, confronted, by death and darkness. That’s when Jesus asks her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark,” John writes, “Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” “While it was still dark.” The other three gospels are very clear that Easter starts at the break of day: “as the first day of the week was dawning” (Matthew), “very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen” (Mark), “on the first day of the week, at early dawn” (Luke). But not John. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” Still dark. Really dark. Darkness in John’s gospel has little to do with the time of day. Darkness; it has everything to do with all that is opposite to the mighty works of God. All the powers and principalities that work to destroy life, life in all fullness, as Jesus said in John. Darkness; it is the symbol, the sum, the prototype, the theme, the weight, the rallying cry in John for all that works against God, God’s reign, God’s kingdom. Mary came to the tomb when it was still dark. In John’s gospel, darkness IS death. Tomb. Dark. That’s death squared.

This isn’t dark as when a theater or concert hall is empty for the evening with nothing scheduled, “the hall is dark.” This isn’t dark as when you are at McCarter Theater for an Anton Chekhov play that is so depressing and there’s so much yelling that you consider leaving at intermission, saying to your seatmate, “it’s too dark.” This is the kind of dark that comes amid the bright lights of a hospital waiting room, when “butterflies in your stomach” doesn’t begin to describe it, and as you wait for the doctor and you keep trying telling yourself this is all a dream, this can’t be happening. This is the kind of dark that tomorrow brings when it takes absolutely every ounce of courage you have to stay sober today. The dark that comes when your grandchild tells you about the mean kids at school and you can’t find any words to make him feel better. The dark that comes as the person you love like no other starts to fade before your eyes. Dark like that walk from the car to the grave in the cemetery that no one can avoid because of the absolute finality and boundless reach of death. It was still dark.

And Mary went alone. Here in John, she went alone. No mention of Mary, the mother of James or of Salome. No reference to the other women. No use of plural pronoun. Mary was alone in all that darkness. She stood outside the tomb all alone weeping. She was not full of fear and great joy. There was no terror and amazement. She was not perplexed. She was weeping. John tells four times she was weeping. Mary stood weeping. As she wept, she bent over the tomb. The angels asked “Why are you weeping?’ The Risen Jesus asked her, “Why are you weeping?” Weeping. Weeping. Weeping. Weeping. She wasn’t crying. This wasn’t shedding a few tears. She was weeping.

When I was a very young boy my brother, who was 21 at the time, was killed in a car accident. I can still hear my mother weeping. I would be outside in the backyard and I could hear her inside weeping. I would wake up in my bedroom next to theirs, and I could hear her weeping in the night. I can hear that sound of weeping like it was just last night. Mary’s tears were the kind of tears you can hear. She didn’t just bend over to look in that tomb. She was doubled over in grief, anguish, lament. Humanity’s brutal force has killed him and now taken him too. He was gone. Everything was gone. It was finished. Mary weeps not just for herself but for everyone, for all, for every single one who has stood alone, surrounded by death and darkness, and who has wailed in the face of the utter absence of God.

And that’s when Jesus asks. He asks “why are you weeping?”  The hot take on the question is to assume Jesus is offering a “there, there, there, Mary,” with a pat on the back and a few “mansplaining, Jesus-splaining,” condescending words like “We all know how this going to end. I’ve been telling you forever how this ends. Mary, Mary, you just don’t get it.” A flippant take on the question is to portray Jesus as a frustrated. “Mary, it’s me, I’m here. I’m standing right here! Uh, hello.” The strong take, the faithful take, the compelling take on Easter morning is to realize that the first words spoken by the Risen Jesus in John’s Gospel he asks after her tears. He acknowledges her tears. He hears her tears. Her tears and ours. He asks. Jesus asks.

And only then comes her name. Then he says her name. He calls her by name. With all those tears, and the piercing reality of darkness and death that proclaims the absence of God, the resurrection promise comes with her name. Before Mary offers the first Easter morning sermon, before she says, “I have seen the Lord,” Christ affirms his resurrection presence with her name.  No trumpet blast. No angel declaration. No earthquake. Just her name. Standing in the very vortex of despair, death, sin, abandonment, hopelessness, judgement, and hell, the Savior called her by name. God knew her by name. And the message was then and forever announced. That Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Some years, the Easter acclamation is a daring, defiant word of hope unleashed on a world that seems increasingly to look like anything but “thy kingdom come on earth as it is heaven.” Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And some years, other years, Easter’s call and response is a plea deep within, a yearning of the soul, a cry of the heart, between you and the Living God, a longing to hear the voice of Christ Jesus call, that this year, it would be an Easter moment with your name on it. That you would recognize, that you would see, that you would know Christ and the power of his resurrection. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And that you would experience afresh the promise of him asking after you.

The strong take, the faithful take, the compelling take on Easter morning is not about telling people about an empty tomb. It is not about winning some argument at dinner about the bodily resurrection, it is not about pretending death is not real. You and I have been to the grave too many times together to think we can fool each other. It’s not even about trying to convince the world or your cousin Phil that Jesus rose from the dead. No. The strong take on Easter morning is the awareness of the mystery and an acknowledgement of what will never be explained. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed.

The strong take on Easter is the gratitude deep within for God’s presence in life and in death. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. The strong take on Easter is the affirmation that washes over you from head to toe that God knows you by name and God loves you. Today and forevermore! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

The strong take on Easter is the bold testimony to the Risen Lord and his presence in your life and in mine.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.