RCL Easter 2B
12 April 2015
Saint Faith’s Anglican Church
Vancouver BC
Readings: Isaiah 65.17-25; Psalm 3; Acts 2.32-35; John
20.19-31
In
the summer of 1970, when I was seventeen years old, my father brought home the
first dog to ever live in our home. Over
the years we had had cats but never a dog.
We called her Moki Ahoti, a name meaning ‘deer that wanders’ in the Hopi
language. Moki was a beautiful blue
merle Australian Shepherd and she lived with my family for more than twelve
years.
When
Moki died, my parents were still quite young, both in their fifties. Several
friends urged them to get another dog, knowing the joy Moki had brought into
our home. My father resisted every time
the conversation wended this way. He
would point out that dogs cost money in food and veterinary care. Having a dog meant that trips had to be
planned rather than spontaneous. The
list of his objections lengthened with each attempt to convince him to get
another dog.
I
had been ordained by the time Moki died and lived in Denver. On one of my trips down the highway to visit
my parent, I met one of their fellow parishioners. ‘Your dad is such a pessimist,’ he said. ‘All he can do is find fault with the idea of
having another dog.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘my
father is a cynic.’ ‘That’s what I
said,’ the man replied. ‘No, there’s a
difference a real difference between a pessimist and a cynic,’ I replied. ‘A pessimistic always assumes the worst. A cynic is an optimist who had been hurt or
disappointed and is not prepared to be hurt or disappointed again.’
The
truth of the matter was this: my father
loved Moki and her death so grieved him that he refused to go through that pain
again. He loved other people’s dogs and
those dogs knew it. But he would not let
one enter into his heart in the same way as Moki, because he knew how the story
would end.
In
many places today is called ‘Low Sunday’ because attendance drops after the
high point of Holy Week and Easter. Some
call it ‘Thomas Sunday’ because every year we read the story of Thomas’
encounter with the risen Jesus which, according to the chronology of John’s
gospel, occurred on this Sunday. For me
it’s ironic that on the Sunday when attendance drops we hear this story and its
concluding words: “Now Jesus did many other
signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this
book. But these are written so that you
may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through
believing you may have life in his name.”
(John 19.30-31). Here we are, on
the Sunday after Easter, with just the ‘regular folks’ for most part,
‘preaching to the choir’!
Although
Thomas figures in all four gospels and in the Acts of the Apostles, he is a
more important figure in John’s gospel.
It is Thomas who, when Jesus announces that he is going to Jerusalem
against the advice of all his friends and disciples, says, “Let us go also,
that we may die with him.” (John
11.16). It is Thomas’ question that
elicits one of Jesus’ most famous and difficult declaration, “I am the way, the
truth, and the life. No one comes to the
Father except through me.” (John 14.6)
Then
comes that Thursday night of betrayal followed by the Friday of trial,
condemnation and execution. By the time
the drama is over, Thomas is no where to be found. He has joined the others in hiding and is not
present for the risen Jesus’ appearance to the other apostles. When they tell him the news of the
resurrection, Thomas, who is wrongly called ‘the Doubter’, refuses to
believe. Why? Because Thomas has been so deeply hurt and
disappointed by the events of Holy Week that he refuses to be hurt and
disappointed again. Thomas the Cynic
won’t open the door of his heart and his hopes, even those his friends assure
him that Jesus has been raised from the dead.
‘Been
there,’ Thomas says, ‘been there, done that, have the t-shirt. Why would I go back?’ What always amazes me about this story is
that his friends will not let him go.
Given all the turmoil of the past week, it would be hard to blame them
if they were to say, ‘Fine, then. Go and
sulk if you wish. We’ve got better
things to do.’ But they don’t. Their love of Thomas, even Thomas the Cynic,
will not let them abandon him to his hurt and disappointment. And somehow they coax him to join them the
following Sunday. And we know how the
story ends.
According
to tradition, Thomas travelled east and proclaimed the gospel as far as the
southwest coast of India. It shouldn’t
surprise us; there were Jewish communities, many of them commercial interests,
spread throughout the east and beyond the boundaries of the Roman Empire. Thomas is supposed to have died in India and,
to this day, there is a vibrant community of Christians known as the ‘Thomas
Christians’. In recent decades they have
been the targets of religious violence, but they hold fast to the faith brought
to them by Thomas the Cynic whose heart was warmed and whose hopes were
renewed.
My
friends, I know many people who are like Thomas. At some point in their lives they have been hurt
or disappointed by the community of faith.
If we listen to their stories, these folks were often very active in
their community and will speak of the place of faith in their lives. Then something happened that led them to
reject that community. Over the years
they have kept their hearts secure from the risk of being hurt or disappointed
again. It rests with us, as it did for
the first apostles, to take the risk and invite these cynics, these deeply
disappointed optimists, ‘to come and see’.
Come
and see what God is doing here in our small community of Saint Faith’s and
those like it around us. Here the lonely
find friends. Here the hungry, whether
hungry in body or in spirit, are fed.
Here ordinary people are empowered to become extraordinary agents of God
to work for the dignity of every human being.
Here God’s vision of a new heaven and a new earth is proclaimed so that
we might live, as best as we able, that new heaven and that new earth in our
homes, our neighbourhoods and our relationships.
Perhaps
you and I share a vocation to help cynics take the risk of loving again, of
hoping again. God knows that it is
difficult sometimes to take the risk of loving another being, of loving the
world, of loving oneself, of daring to hope that the world in which we live can
become what God intends it to be. But
the risk is worth it.
“God
got a dog. She never meant to. She liked dogs, She’d liked them ever since
She was a kid, but She didn’t think She had time for a dog now. She was always working and dogs needed so
much attention. God didn’t know if She
could take being needed by one more thing.
But She saw this dog out by the tracks and it was hungry and cold and
lonely and God realized She’d made that dog somehow, somehow She was
responsible though She knew logically that She had only set the world on its
course. She couldn’t be blamed for
everything. But She saw this dog and She
felt bad so She took it on home and named it Ernie and now God . . . has
somebody keeping Her feet warm at night.” [1]
Do
you know anyone who needs their feet warm again? Bring them here.
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