"Gospel of Tenderness"

John 20:19-24

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS 

April 23, 2022

Have you ever spent time watching young dancers learn ballet? Or maybe you even were one yourself and can still remember what that was like. We’re used to seeing the end-product of years of work on a stage. Dancers flying through the air with grace, contorting into forms that are downright impossible for most of us, creating art with nothing but their own bodies, moving our emotions powerfully with each shift of their muscles. 

But in the beginning, it’s not so graceful. What appears easy on a grand stage after thousands of hours of practice is, of course, not simple at all. 

Take, for example, one simple ballet skill: battement tendu. A dancer moves from first position - heels together, toes out - and extends one leg to either the front, the side, or the back. The toe never leaves the ground. The muscles are taught and the leg perfectly extended. Hours may be spent perfecting this one simple extension, which is the foundation for later movements. What appears automatic for a 25 year old dancer probably took a 5 year old hours and hours and hours of practice. 

Battement tendu means a repeated, stretched movement. Battement - beat, a repeated movement, again and again. Tendu - tense, stretched. 

Tendu, of course, is similar to the English tender. When things are stretched, they can become delicate, tenuous.. We have to be gentle with them. 

Tenderness is the word that comes to my mind over and over again when I read the Gospel of John. You know, each Gospel kind of has its own flavor. 

Mark is the oldest Gospel. It’s the shortest and the most bare-bones. We don’t have a birth story at all. And the Easter story is incredibly short and simple. The book ends with the women not telling anyone what they saw at the tomb because they were afraid. 

Luke is known for its love of the underdog. Marginalized folks take center stage in this Gospel, making it easy to remember that Luke’s version of Jesus’s birth is the one with shepherds - everyday, working folks. And Luke’s Easter story, which we heard last week, features the women speaking their truth loudly even though some of the male disciples didn’t want to listen. 

Matthew is both uniquely Jewish and global in scope. This Gospel loves to quote the Hebrew Scriptures over and over AND makes it clear that Jesus has come for the whole world, not just Jews. Matthew’s Jesus is a Messiah with a capital M. A big King on a throne. So in Matthew’s birth narrative we get the Magi from far away coming to worship the baby Jesus. And we get the cosmic clash between an earthly King and God with the horrible story about the massacre of the innocents. And in the Easter story we get more earth-shaking news with an actual earthquake and then the disciples are told to go forth and share the good news of Christ with the whole world. 

John’s Gospel is the newest of the four. There are quite a lot of things in John that are different from the stories in the other three. Things that are unique to John like the story of water into wine at Cana and the raising of Lazarus. There’s no baby in a manger in John. Instead we have a second creation story, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” Now, how exactly can something both be WITH God and BE God, too? We’re not told. John’s Gospel is full of beautiful, mystical, poetic language that will tie your head up in knots if you try to look at it rationally. My friends and I spent most of seminary wondering just what exactly the author was smoking when he wrote this beautiful book. 

Jesus in John’s Gospel is frequently enigmatic. He’s not someone you’d necessarily want to have a beer with. Because he says troubling things like, “I am the way and the truth and the life.” The disciples are often flummoxed by him and it’s easy to see why. 

And although Jesus seems very otherworldly in John’s Gospel, I’ve always loved that the other people are very peopley in this Gospel. And the bond between Jesus and all those people like you and me is deep, strong, and so very relatable. This is the Gospel where Jesus insists on washing his friends’ feet.

This is the Gospel where Jesus’s dear friends Mary and Martha chastise him because he didn’t come in time to save their brother Lazarus from dying. And when Jesus sees their distress - sees Mary crying - he, too, begins to cry. And then, from those tender tears shared between friends, comes new life - as Jesus raises Lazarus in love. 

That tenderness between friends extends to the very end of this Gospel. “Tender,” is the word that comes to me again and again when I read the Easter stories in John. Mary Magdalene crying at the tomb because she thinks Jesus’s body has been stolen. And then realizing that Jesus is there with her when he tenderly speaks her name. There’s a gentleness and great care between these two friends as they stretch their hearts towards one another. 

And then Jesus on the beach with his friends. They’re trying to catch fish but having no luck. And in a tender moment of care, Jesus tells them where to cast their nets and cooks up a nutritious breakfast for them over a charcoal fire. Jesus gently pulls Simon Peter aside and asks him three times, “Do you love me?” Three times Peter is given the opportunity for a do-over - affirming his love for Jesus. A chance to make things right after his three earlier denials. The tenderness of a bruised friendship. Two people who love each other stretching towards one another in vulnerability, finding a resurrected relationship after great hurt. 

Vulnerability is on full display in the resurrection story we heard today, too. Thomas, reaching out to touch his friend's wounds. Jesus, the Teacher, showing up in exactly the way his friend needs in this tender moment of intimacy. 

Thomas has, of course, gotten a bad rap over the years for this story. “Doubting Thomas” we’ve called him, as if his desire to more fully understand the impossibility of the resurrection is somehow a liability. Thomas doesn’t really ask for anything more than what the other disciples already got, incidentally. Part one of this story is Jesus appearing to the other disciples. Jesus shows up, says, “peace be with you,” and shows them his wounds. They believe. 

Thomas misses this first appearance, though. We aren’t told why. Some commentators have assumed it’s because he was slacking. That he wasn’t there with the team at this moment. But what the text actually says is that the disciples were behind closed doors because they were afraid of the religious authorities. They were in hiding. So perhaps Thomas wasn’t there because he was brave. Maybe he was out in the world doing what Jesus had told them to do instead of hiding in fear. This seems especially likely because one of the only other stories we have about Thomas is in John 11 when no one wants to go with Jesus to Bethany because they’re afraid they’ll all get killed. But Thomas says, “We should all go with Jesus and die alongside him if need be.” Wow. What courage. How did this poor guy get a reputation for lacking loyalty? 

When Thomas finds out his friends have seen dead-Jesus-somehow-alive-again he scoffs. “I’ll believe that when I see it. And see his wounds. And touch them. Yeah, right.”

Which, honestly, is probably what MOST of us would say if confronted with this news, right? 

The incredible thing about this story, I think, is not so much what Thomas does, but what Jesus does. Again, Jesus shows up to the disciples, but this time Thomas is there, too. Again, Jesus says, “peace be with you.” And then in this beautiful moment of friendship, Jesus anticipates precisely what Thomas needs, without even having to ask. He simply holds out his wounded body and says, “See. Touch. Believe.”

Jesus knows just what Thomas needs. Jesus meets Thomas exactly where he is. It’s a stunning moment of vulnerability for both of them. The story is so tender, so heart-wrenching, it begs to be told and heard with gentleness. Perhaps it should only be told in a whisper: one wounded friend stretches out towards another wounded friend and together they lean into the possibility of hope and new life. 

It’s an intimate, bloody, raw story of friendship and love that is so profound - even death cannot control it. Thomas recognizes Jesus in breathless wonder, “My Lord and my God.” Others in his Gospel call Jesus Lord, but only Thomas calls Christ “God.” 

A God whose love is so relentless that it has to be embodied among us. The Word putting on flesh and moving into the neighborhood. Love walking around with human skin on. Love so tender, so fierce, so intimate that it cannot leave us even when death comes calling. Love that isn’t afraid to be with us in our pain and woundedness. Love that will sit with us when we cry. Love that meets us where we are and gives us just what we need. 

Tender. Fierce. Intimate. 

We are both the recipients and the bearers of this love. Loved into fullness by the one who calls us by name. And called out, beyond ourselves, to see and name and celebrate one another. In the person of Jesus we not only see God-enfleshed but a model of tenderness held out as a gift. An invitation to see each other in all our imperfect glory, enter into one another’s joy and sorrow, and tenderly, gently, compassionately walk through this life together. 

Like young dancers learning from a patient teacher, we stretch our muscles again and again. 

We show up and watch and listen, carefully learning the steps. 

We practice for a whole lifetime until our tenderness becomes muscle memory. Until those tendus begin to look effortless. 

Tenderness, compassion, gentleness with ourselves and with others. 

This is the way of Christ. Thanks be to God. 

“Deep Dawn”

Luke 24:1-12

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS 

April 17, 2022 - Easter Sunday

We are told that the women went to Jesus’s tomb early in the morning - at deep dawn. [1]  That time of day when the sun’s not peeking up over the horizon yet, but the light is just starting to change. The world has a flatness that’s a bit disorienting. The birds are warming up for their symphony.

Deep dawn. 

I wonder how the women felt in that in-between time of deep dawn. Making their way to the tomb of their friend. Can you see their small, quiet parade in your mind’s eye?

It’s been a week of parades, really. Last week we gathered together in this sanctuary to wave our palms. The scriptures tell us that the anticipation of the disturbance in the force was so great that even the rocks couldn’t keep quiet. Together, we raised our voices, “Hosanna! Save us!”

But a week later, it’s a very different parade. Just a small band of women-friends focused on the task at hand.

These women have been through hell this week. And after all the whispered schemes, the cries of acclamation and disgust, the back-room dealings, the ugly scene at Golgotha….here they are. 

Still. At deep dawn. Faithful. 

Luke’s gospel tells us some of their names – Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James – and “other women” with them. So it seems there are at least five women making the solemn procession. 

Here they come  - early to the tomb. They are carrying with them their supplies – spices carefully prepared for taking care of their friend’s body. Did they feel sad? Scared? Tired? Angry? Hopeless? Resigned? All of that? We don’t know. We aren’t told. 

But here they come – right into the eye of this storm. 

It’s been a week of chaos. The destructive forces of evil unleashed in Jerusalem. The warnings from Jesus were clear – he told them and told them that things wouldn’t end well. But they were all surprised, I think, at just how ugly the forces of oppression and hate can be. 

As the winds die down and the storm rests for a bit, the women gather. Why do they do it? Is there a word that captures duty, love, faithfulness mingled together? 

If there is, I imagine this small, quiet parade is the textbook illustration for it. The women walk straight into the aftermath of the Mess of death. Duty, love, faithfulness embodied. 

But circumstances interrupt their good intentions. Because there is no body to anoint. That giant heavy stone is gone and the tomb is empty. And suddenly, before they even have time to come up with any theories about what’s going on, two shiny, gleaming men admonish them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”

They say this like it makes any sense at all. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.” Why are shiny men-angels always so confident and confounding? Don’t they know the dead are supposed to stay dead? Come on. That’s how it works. Everyone knows that. 

This is, of course, why Jesus’s other friends didn’t believe the women. Why they thought they were full of it. Our translation says the menfolk thought the womenfolk were telling an idle tale. The Greek there is leros. One of my favorite preachers, Anna Carter Florence, translates it as a word that I won’t say from the pulpit but you can say it in your head if you’d like: cow manure. 

THAT’S what the menfolk say. That these women are full of it, “cow manure.” The dead stay dead. It doesn’t make sense to look for the living among the dead because the dead won’t be alive – they’ll be dead. 

Might I pause for a moment and note that you may be in utter agreement with the menfolk. I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I, personally, have never seen a dead person become un-dead. I get it. 

But this story – this wild cow-manure-tastic story that is at the center of our faith – confronts us again as it does each year. The winds of this powerful gospel-storm knock us off our feet once again and we are, some of us, breathless with uncertainty and doubt. 

Because – what if? What if it’s somehow true? What if death isn’t the end? What if there is More? 

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This story is messy. There’s no way around it. We don’t even have a single version of the resurrection. We have four significantly different versions in each of the four gospels. Plus the resurrection echo stories like the one we’ll hear next week with “Doubting” Thomas and the road to Emmaus and Jesus on the beach cooking up fish. There’s a lot that doesn’t really make sense. It’s messy. 

And I don’t know how you feel about all that mess. Would it be simpler if it were tidied up?

There’s so much in the world that begs for tidying. What if empires played nice and behaved reasonably? What if corporations could be trusted to always have our best interests at heart? What if we really didn’t have to study war no more? What if we each felt certain there was enough to go around and everyone had enough to share? What if our biggest problem was forgetting to get the trash to the curb in time for morning pick up? 

That would be nice. So nice. But the world we live in isn’t tidy. And the world these women lived in wasn’t tidy either. 

I wonder if there’s something about being keenly aware of all this Mess that makes the More seem plausible. When you’ve stared death in the face. When you’ve seen evil on the nightly news – or in person – and recognized it for what it is….I wonder if confronting the Mess somehow opens our hearts to the possibility of More? I’m not sure. 

What I do know is that this is a messy story. I assume that’s why we have all the different versions of it in our holy texts. Everything’s a bit out of control. And these women have been in the thick of it. They were there as Jesus walked to Golgotha. They were there at the cross as he was executed. And they made their solemn parade to the tomb at deep dawn. 

They had seen the Mess – walked with Jesus right into the storm head on. They were willing to look right into the eyes of the dead. They did not flinch. 

Peter, too, had seen some Mess. After all, it was Peter who denied Christ three times in an attempt to save his own hide. And after he had done so, he wept bitterly. He knew what the Mess looked like. He was mired knee-deep in the Mess. He didn’t have to look any further than the closest mirror to see the Mess. 

But Peter – “But Peter!” – says the author of Luke -  “But Peter got up and ran to the tomb.” 

While the other disciples stood there so sure, mansplaining the women, chastising them for their idle tale…Peter was curious. He went to see for himself. 

I have to wonder if there was something about having looked into his own Messy soul that made Peter willing to suspend all common sense for a moment and reach out for the impossible. 

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“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

Well, probably they weren’t really looking for the living at all. Probably, the women were just trying to slog through the Mess of evil and its aftermath and they got accidentally caught in the middle of the More.  

What if showing up for the Mess and its aftermath matters? What if God is in the middle of the Mess and invites us wade into it, too? What if showing up for the Mess is how we find the More? 

Easter is a big ol’ Messy story. A story that cannot be contained on this one day – it explodes out of our ancient texts in chaotic, confounding snippets. It bursts forth like the dogwood, forsythia, and redbuds putting on a show. It resonates in our chests like the rumble of the organ and tickles our ears like the brightness of the brass.  

The spirit of Easter - the truth of Easter  – the More beyond the Mess - is with us still. Whispering from the depths of deep dawn. Tapping at the edges of our dreams like the birds that sing us into a new day.. Inviting us beyond what we see here and now - calling us into Beloved Community. 

Easter invites us to imagine a world grounded in the truth of love in the midst of hate; hope in the midst of terror; triumph that moves beyond tragedy; and the impossibility of life from death. 

It may be just the story our Messy world needs. 

NOTES: 

[1] With gratitude to Robert Williamson, Jr. for the translation of “deep dawn.”