Archived Homily: “The Journey to a Place called Joy: Bridging the Gulf between God’s Promises and What We Can See”

John Lennon penned some words that used to disturb me a great deal – that is, before I walked through a place in my life that I hope never to see again; before I experienced first-hand the kind of doubts, fears, and imaginings that can push one to the brink of disbelief. He wrote, “Imagine there’s no heaven; it’s easy if you try. No hell below us; above us only sky. Imagine all the people living for today…” I’m told that Mr. Lennon, at one point in his life, thought about inviting Jesus into his heart. Apparently, he did not. A song about trying to see hope in the lack of a heaven speaks volumes. But we share something in common with John Lennon, don’t we? You and I are sitting here because, at one point in our lives, we thought about barring Jesus from our hearts. We allowed – at some level – our doubts to inform our imaginations. Like Mr. Lennon, we might compose our own song. It might go something like this: “Imagine there is a heaven; it’s not easy, given what we see. There is a hell below us; above us a glory that seems so far away. Imagine all of us living in joy and peace, if you can…” Sometimes it’s very difficult to see the connection between God’s promises and our present circumstances. Sometimes it’s very difficult to walk in joy when our hearts are filled with hopelessness. There’s something so bleak about the lyrics of either version of that song, isn’t there? There’s something so very mournful and sad. There’s something so very “Upper Room” about those words; for only a soul struck to the core with grief could write them. The fact of the matter is this: On that Resurrection Day, some two thousand years ago, the disciples of Jesus were hurting deeply. In fact, hurting doesn’t begin to describe it. There’s something more going on; something like emotional paralysis, deep depression, or – dare I say it? – spiritual suicide. Brothers, imagine with me – if you will – a house in the heart of Jerusalem. While the city around it bustles in the festivity of Passover, this little house is dead and dark. The shutters are closed, the doors are locked and bolted. Within its walls there’s silence mixed with the occasional sound muted sobbing. This is beyond a wake or the gathering of a family in the midst of untimely grief. This is self-imposed imprisonment. This is the jerking away of hope in a perceived dawn of despair. And so the imagining begins. When we’re hurting, we imagine all sorts of things – even about God. And lurking within the hearts of those disciples there was – no doubt – a desire to survive; a desire to make sense of things by means of human rationalization. We can almost hear the panicked voices: “Maybe he wasn’t telling the truth after all. Maybe we made him into something more than he was supposed to be. Maybe God doesn’t love us. Maybe God forgot about us. Maybe God is cruel.” Can you see it? Can you see how their fear, their loss, their doubt in the face of what seems like the cruelest of jokes could push them to write a song of their own – a song about the death of their faith? We so often gloss over what the disciples went through during those fifty days between Easter and Pentecost, that we lose sight of the quiet miracle taking place. We want to go from Good Friday to Easter and straight on to the triumphant building of the Church. We forget that between Easter and the birth of the Church at Pentecost, there were days of grieving and healing, bewilderment and fear, timidity and hope. Our Lord Jesus stepped into that upper room quietly and tenderly. He came among them gently, as a bridegroom to his sobbing bride. Tears became the language of vulnerability. Words would not, or could not, come forth their lips to meet Jesus’ greeting of “Peace be with you.” So, patiently, he showed them his hands and his side, and greeted them again. And though they were happy to see him, no words are recorded. Perhaps they trembled. Perhaps they stared in wonder. Perhaps they sobbed all the more. Perhaps they fell at his feet in worship. So often our fears about God are registered in a self-imposed imprisonment of the soul – in a song that starts somewhere deep within us, asking us to imagine that God messed up, or that he’s forgotten us, or that he’s chosen to be cruel. The unspoken dilemma of so many people is what they share in common with the disciples gathered in that upper room: “Jesus promised this, that, and the other thing,” they might say. “There’s no way it can happen now. It’s all over. God has failed.” Corrie ten Boom – a woman whose testimony literally changed my life – tells the story of how her sister Betsie woke her one night to share a vision the Lord had given her. Corrie and Betsie were imprisoned in the Ravensbruck Concentration Camp in Germany, near the end of Word War II. The vision Betsie shared with her often-doubting sister was one in which they would open a home for people deeply wounded by that war. It involved –according to the vision – global travel, sharing their testimony of God’s love and healing. Within days, the sister to whom the Lord had given that vision was dead; and the sister who had doubted so often, and so intensely, was left to trust that the Lord to make it happen. In the writings she left for us, Corrie tells – again and again – about her lack of faith; about the pain in her heart; and about the Lord’s gentle patience in helping her along, until, at last, she began to see what he could do. True to his word – given through Betsie – he provided a house to which those severely harmed by the war could come. He began to send her throughout Europe, and then all over the world with his message of healing, restoration, and trust. What I love about our sister, Corrie, is that she freely admitted her doubts and, when God stepped in, she never hesitated to give him the glory. Step by tiny step she learned to believe and, in the process, received the healing she needed. We see the same story with Job, don’t we? Job questioned God. Job offered his lament. Like Corrie and like the disciples – and like us, if we’re honest – Job went into his own version of self-imposed imprisonment. As important as the question is about what Job did next – or what Corrie, or the disciples did next, or what you and I will do next – is the question about what God did next. God rose up in his majesty and glory to beautifully, powerfully, and poetically remind Job of his care and of his love. He met Job where Job was at – just as he met Corrie where she was at, and the Disciples where they were at. Even though, in Job’s case, the Lord thundered out his reminders, there’s something of tenderness in his words that gave Job pause to reflect – to stop imagining and start reasoning. Then, as now, the Lord held out his hand as to a shaken child. Then, as now, the Lord sought to comfort his beloved. Job’s response is beautiful in its humility. He says: “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” I don’t know whether it’s our fear, or our pride, or our despondency that often keep us from saying this kind of thing nowadays – perhaps it’s some combination of all three. But it seems that we should learn to say it more often – not because we’re unworthy worms, but because honest self-assessment in the company of a loving God can bring healing. Job tells us that, in his ignorance, he couldn’t see. Corrie ten Boom reminds her readers over and over again that the Lord had to show her the way. The Disciples needed to see Jesus over and over again – during those fifty days between Easter and Pentecost – just to take the tiniest of steps toward a place called joy. So why are we so intent upon leaps and bounds when Jesus – in most cases – wants to lead us one step at a time? Is it because – as the Psalmist testifies – such things are too wonderful for us to comprehend? If the men and women whose examples the Lord has lifted before us had to take tiny steps in order to follow him, why should we not be content with the gentle nudge rather than the awe-inspiring revelation? If we had been in the upper room on Resurrection Day, the chances are slim indeed that we would have had the faith of even the lowliest among the disciples. Brothers, our Savior is patient and kind. He’s with us every step of the way. As we journey with the disciples from their tentative reception of Jesus on Resurrection Day to the triumphant proclamation of Pentecost, I think we’re going to discover a patient love we’ve never allowed ourselves to see. As we sit here today, there are things in each of our lives that don’t make sense – there are circumstances that don’t match up to the promises God has made. In the silence of our hearts, there exists the temptation to sing a song of an imagined God who got it wrong, who failed miserably, who left us when we needed him most. That temptation grows all the more powerful when we think – quite falsely – that the disciples suddenly went from despair to joy, or that Job didn’t have to work through things – step by step – with God. Even in one of the most spectacular revelations of God to man – the revelation given to Saint John by our Lord Jesus – we see the necessity of our human nature to take things slowly. Jesus blares the trumpet – so to speak – and announces in a fantastic manner a vision that’s beyond human comprehension. John falls down – as though dead – at the feet of Jesus. And in his tender mercy, our Lord says to him, “Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living One; I died, and behold I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hades.” You can almost feel the gentle touch of his hand on his shoulder, can’t you? You can sense the willingness of Jesus to take things at the pace he knows John can cope with. Such is the case with each of us. He knows our every weakness. He knows our every failure. And yet, he’s tailored an individual class in discipleship to fit each of us – as though we were his only focus, his only concern. Brothers, if you persist in this journey to a place called joy, you will find the wholeness and healing for which every man longs. You will find the songs of imagination replaced by songs of grateful victory. So, I invite you to walk – in the coming weeks – with our Lord and his first disciples as they show us how to bridge the gulf between God’s promises and what we can see. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Father Todd Boyce, Vicar The Fellowship of Saint Joseph Sunday, April 11, 2010