LOVE THAT SURPRISES

Posted on April 13, 2025 by Hedy Collver

We know how a king arrives…

A king emerges from his private jet, 
polished and shining
walking down the stairs
waving to the crowds. 

Security forms a wall
layers of protocol and protection
a bulletproof limo glides
black as midnight. 
Tinted glass keeps the world out 
and keeps the power in

The king’s suit? 
Tailored to perfection, 
worth more than a year’s salary 
for someone 
struggling to make ends meet
halfway around his world. 

He steps out, unbothered. 
He knows who he is. 
He is protected, respected. 
He is untouchable. 

He doesn’t touch his own luggage.
He’s got a team for that.
People in black suits with earpieces,
moving before him, around him,
clearing space like he’s sacred.

The tarmac is cleared.
Not one vehicle moves
until his motorcade passes.
Wheels don’t turn unless he says so.
Lives pause—
all because he is present.

Phones rise, cameras flash.
A thousand lenses try to capture the moment.
But none of them see him—
not really.
Only the image he wants you to see.

Flags wave. Anthems play.
Security scans every rooftop.

There’s a podium waiting,
and a speech already written
about strength, 
greatness, 
and how he will protect 
what is his.

His steps are rehearsed.
Every movement choreographed
to remind you:
He is important.

You are not.

We know how a king arrives. 
We’ve seen it. 
We expect it.

Over the years,
technology changes.
Planes instead of chariots.
Motorcades instead of marching columns.
Custom suits instead of royal robes.
But 
really
nothing much has changed.

Power has always paraded.

Ego has always demanded an audience.

And kings —
they have always arrived 
with the same message:

“Look at me. 
Fear me. 
I am in control.”

Two thousand years ago,
another king arrived.
Not with fancy jets 
or black SUVs —
but the message was the same:

“Remember 
who’s in charge.”

Because kings —
they don’t risk their thrones.
They reinforce them.

Over two thousand years ago
a king named Herod leaves his palace 
carved from rock and from pride— 
Herodium, Herod’s fortress, 
carved 
literally 
out of a mountain,
looming above the people 
he is supposed to rule.

Herod leaves that palace behind
to journey to stay behind
the walls of one 
of his many other palaces.
This one was in Jerusalem. 

Herod goes there because
it is time for the Passover.

A holy time of remembrance 
and thanksgiving and gratitude 
for God delivering
the people of Israel
from slavery and bondage.

But Herod didn’t come to worship.

He didn’t come 
to celebrate deliverance—
He came to prevent it.

He came for Passover, 
yes,
but not for the lamb.
Not for the prayers.
Not to remember freedom from Pharaoh.

He came to make sure no one tried
to mess with the status quo.

Herod traveled to Jerusalem 
because Passover is 
DANGEROUS.

When people remember
they were once slaves…
and then through God’s grace
they rose up
struggled
persevered
were freed.

It Is risky 
when the oppressed
start singing about liberation —

especially when they believe
it 
still
can 
happen.

So Herod came
with soldiers and swords,
not singing the psalms of God.

He came with fear looming
beneath his gold-trimmed robe.

He came to maintain order,
to crush uprisings,
to flex Rome’s muscle
so no one forgot
who held the leash.

Herod wasn’t there for the feast —
He was there for control.

Because nothing scares an empire
like a crowd singing about 
freedom.

Herod does not walk
from the safety of palace
to the safety of of palace. 
He is carried— 
in a carriage draped with silk.
The dust of the road does not sully
the golden threads of his robe.
Golden harnesses on his horses 
catch the light. 
Heralds proclaim his might.
Trumpets announce his movement. 

And the people? 
Well, they line the roads, 
not because they want to
but because they must. 
For fear marches ahead of this king.

Within the shelter 
of his luxurious carriage Herod is safe.
He travels surrounded by soldiers 
trained to kill 
at the flick of a royal finger. 

He wears a crown, 
not as a burden but as a badge. 
He knows who he is. 
He is superior, privileged, 
hand-picked by the authorities in Rome.
Entitled to rule.

That crown serves as a reminder 
to all who see it
that this king holds
the power of life and death
over all he surveys.

We know how a king arrives. 
We’ve read the stories. 
We’ve seen the news.
We know how a king arrives.

We Know WHY a King Arrives…

He arrives to remind the people 
who’s in charge. 
To crush any whisper of rebellion.
To flex power. 
To protect what is his. 
To expand his great name. 

To threaten those all those who might 
dare
to dream of justice
to dream of freedom
to dream of hope.

We know why a king arrives.

A king arrives 
to gather allies, 
to silence enemies, 
to reinforce the distance 
between ruler
and ruled. 

We know why a king arrives. 
We’ve seen the press releases. 
We’ve heard the fanfare. 
We’ve lived under the weight 
of what kings expect.

But then— 
over two thousand years ago 
on that same Sunday
as the Passover arrived —
there was another procession. 

It came from 
the opposite direction
to that same holy city. 

Another King was arriving
in Jerusalem.

A very different 
very surprising
King. 

But…

We KNOW 
this is NOT 
how a king arrives.

This other King comes
not from a palace. 
But a friend’s home. 
He comes from 
a place of peace, 
of family,
of love and care,
not of power or fear. 

Jesus’ procession slowly moves
from Bethany through Bethphage
over the crest of the hill
overlooking the Kidron Valley below

This king, too, rides— 
but not carried above it all
in a silk-curtained carriage.

This King doesn’t even ride
a fine powerful stallion.

This King rides on 
a borrowed 
donkey. 

On this King’s procession
there are no trumpets blasting, 
just the slow, mild breeze 
from palm branches
waving in the air. 

No fanfare. 
No flourishes.
Just people’s coats and cloaks, 
laid down on the road in hope. 

No soldiers marching, 
just children 
laughing and singing. 

No security detail, 
just disciples
just friends
who still 
don’t quite get it, 
but who follow anyway. 

No crown at all
will this King wear 

Unless you count 
the one he will be soon given
made of thorns 
that pierce his brow. 

But, seriously.

C’mon.

We know this is NOT how a king arrives. 

The crowd cried out
as Jesus rode by:
Hosanna!

Meaning: 
Save us!

And they meant it.

But they didn’t understand 
what they were asking.
Not really.
Not yet.

They meant:
Save us from them.
From Rome.
From taxes.
From fear in the streets.
Save us from political disappointment
and entrenched injustice.

They meant:
Save us—
save us with swords and with armies.
Save us with strength and with spectacle.
Save us with thrones and with thunder.

The crowd shouted:
Hosanna!
Save us!

Palm branches waving 
like victory flags.

But they didn’t understand
that the revolution they were asking for
was different than they anticipated.
They didn’t see
that the kind of saving 
Jesus came to do
was deeper than politics,
bigger than empires,
slower than war—
and more eternal 
than any crown.

They didn’t see
that Jesus would answer their cries
not with domination,
but with surrender.
Not with violence,
but with vulnerability 
and love.

Hosanna!
Save us!

He would do it.

He would save them.
He would save us.
But not the way they expected.
Not even the way we expect.

Because Love,
real love 
is a Love That Surprises

We know this is how OUR King arrived. 

Humble. 
Honest. 
Peaceful.
Vulnerable. 
Simple.

Surprising. 
Revolutionary.

And then— 
as the crowd fades, 
as the noise settles— 

Jesus stops. 

Right there on the Mount of Olives. 
Among the tombs of his people. 
Among the dead. 

Across the Kidron Valley 
he sees the holy city, 
the shining gates of Jerusalem.

And he weeps. 

Wait!

Kings don’t weep. 
Kings don’t grieve 
for the cities they enter. 
Kings don’t cry out a lament
for the pain 
of the future of their people.

This is NOT why a king arrives. 

A king that arrives to be broken?
A king that arrives to suffer?
A king that arrives to give himself away?

But…

we know this 
IS why 
THIS KING 
arrived:

To choose the cross over comfort. 
To walk toward his pain. 
To plant love where others sow fear. 
To pour himself out 
while others puff themselves up. 

Jesus arrives not to take the throne
in Jerusalem— 
but to take away 
to heal
the sins
of our hearts 
and minds. 

Jesus arrives not to raise a sword— 
but to resurrect the dead. 

Jesus arrives not to care for himself—
but to care for us.

Jesus arrives not to dominate the powerful—
but to lift up the powerless.

Jesus arrives not to claim a throne—
but to carry a cross.

Jesus arrives not with armies—
but with compassion and grace.

Jesus arrives not to be served— 
but to wash the tired feet of his servants.

Jesus arrives not to safeguard his life—
but to pour it out.

For you.
For me.

And so, on this Palm Sunday
we, too, cry out:

Hosanna!
Save us!

Because that is why our King arrived. 

Because love— 
real love— 
Is a love that surprises.

The palms will fade.
The cheering crowd will grow quiet.

The road will get darker.

There will be a table,
a towel,
bread broken
and wine shared.

There will be a garden
where sweat becomes blood.

There will be betrayal.

Arrest.
Trial.
Cross.
Tomb.

Because Love—
that kind of love—
doesn’t stop when it’s hard.

It keeps going.
It goes all the way.

So walk the road this week.

Let yourself be surprised.
Let the silence speak,
the shadows stretch,
the cross ask its hard questions.

Because even today
the stone is already thinking 
about rolling.

The light is already stretching 
toward Easter morning.

And the revolution of love?
It isn’t over.

It’s only just begun.

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Remember

Posted on October 2, 2024 by Hedy Collver

As we prepare to celebrate World Communion Sunday on October 6, here is a poem that I forgot I had written! 🙂 Found it this morning in an old undated journal.

REMEMBER

“Whenever you 
eat this meal,
remember me.”

I imagine confused looks
passed between 
those gathered 
around the table.
One turning his head
to the one next to him.

“Remember him?”

But Jesus
had already moved on.

Their eyes now 
tracked his hands
as they lifted high
the cup
full of wine
holding it before them
looking each in the eye.

“This is my blood,
the new covenant,
poured out for you
and for many
for the forgiveness of sins.
Do this
and remember me.”

“Remember?”

they whispered
“Why do we need to
remember? 
He is right 
here!”

And
yet,
remember,
Jesus said.

Memory.

It’s a funny thing
isn’t it?

It’s a taking out of 
a snapshot
stored in our minds
holding it in front of us
a small glimpse
into a fragment
of our past.

A feeling
A pain
A joy

Memory
is an opening window
through which a breeze
scented with other places
other times
blows through.

For a moment
we can
sit
in that story
that memory
visiting with people
long passed
walking through
a conversation
long ended
hearing voices
long stilled.

Though years may pass
though the feelings change
the memory remains.

Memory is by its nature
things past.

We hold no memories
of things
to come.

We cannot take out
a snapshot
of our future
hold it out
in front of us
and contemplate
what it holds.

We cannot crack open
the window
of the days
that lie ahead
to catch
a glimpse or
a scent or
a sound.

It is only
our past
that can be opened
for review
as we
remember.

Eventually
our present
becomes 
more pressing
and we close the window
put away the snapshot
to focus on the
here-and-now.

But
then
again
we return.

We
remember.

Our past has
a gravitational
pull
on our minds
our emotions
our souls.

Our past —
its pains
its joys —
call to us
calling us to
remember.

Our past
is what
we know.

Our past
is what
made us
into the people
we are today.

Beautiful
Broken
Strong
Shattered

Courageous

The past
is what
we know.

Even when it
pinched
Even where it
hurt
We knew
its edges
We knew it.

Long ago
in a holy city
on a holy night
a holy man
sat with his friends
around a table
and told them
to

remember.

That night
they did not
understand
his words.

Because they 
could not
open the window
to their future
to catch a glimpse
of what was to come.

Garden
Betrayal
Trial

That night
they did not
understand 
his words.

Because they
could not
take out a
snapshot
of their future
to hold it in front of them
to know
what was
to come.

Death
Grief
Confusion
Fear

Jesus said,
“Do this
and remember me.”

Because

Although
they did not 
know

Although
they did not
understand

Jesus
did

He came
that holy man
to that holy city
on that holy night

because
he knew
why
he had come

To teach
To love
To point the way
to his Father

To go 
to a cross
to a grave

Because
he knew
that his friends
gathered around
the table
on that holy night
in that holy city
would
not understand.

Until

suddenly

they

did

After Jesus
was resurrected
they
saw him
spoke with him
touched him

Then
they

remembered.

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From River to Resurrection

Posted on April 5, 2021 by Hedy Collver

Early in the morning
as the sun began to rise
women
went to the tomb

They went to offer
one last gesture
of care
of respect
of love

to the broken body
of the man
the Messiah
the Savior
who had selflessly
offered himself
for them

As they walked that path
from city to garden tomb
the dust rising from their feet
as they walked

Broken hearted
spirits torn in grief

On that Friday before
his broken body
had been taken down from the cross
had been taken up by his followers
had been placed down on the cold floor
on the hollowed out rock
of the tomb

The stone had been rolled
With a resounding thud
it had fallen into place
before the entrance
closing off that tomb
closing them off
from Jesus

from the man they had followed
the Messiah they had longed for
the Savior they had love

As they walked to that tomb
they held on to each other
in their grief

their hearts splintered
by the brokenness of his body
by the brokenness of the world

And they thought
it was
finished

But no

It was
about

to begin

Because
two thousand years ago
in the Holy Land
this

this

is
what Jesus came to do

…

Two years ago
in the Holy Land

as I stood on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at the water rushing by

I wondered

Could this be where
it all began

Hundreds of miles of shoreline
so the likelihood wasn’t high
but
somewhere along those shores
somewhere along that river

Jesus had stood looking out
at the water rushing by

And so
I wondered

Could this be where Jesus stood

Could his feet have rested
where mine now made
an impression in the muddy bank

Could this be where
he walked
down the slope
his feet entering the cold water
wading out to where his cousin John waited

Could this be where
it all began

Standing on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at water rushing by

and thinking

This beautiful world
populated by beautiful people
made in the image of God

Daily I am amazed
by the
beauty I see
in the world around me

in the kindness of strangers
in the laugh of a child
in a smile set amongst
deep wrinkles

That beauty
though

that image of God

all too often
seems overlaid
with a sharp patina

tainted
sullied
damaged

This beautiful world
created by God
filled with beautiful people
created by God

and yet

we see
and experience

cruelty
unspeakable violence
disregard
callousness and care-less-ness

where human beings
become less than we are
less than we could be
less than we should be

where the image of God is covered over
with something
quite else entirely

While this spirit inside me
longs for something
pure and holy and spotless and joy-filled

while it longs for what is
clean and good and true

all around us the world
seems to clamor loudly for
clear-cut divisions

people analyzed
and judged
and neatly wrapped up into
unambiguous categories of
“us” versus “them”

Never mind the damage done
to the people placed so firmly
on one side of the dividing line
or the other

Never mind the damage done to relationships
to communities
to countries
to the world

The lines are drawn
The sides are taken

The image of God in each other
no longer recognized
no longer looked for
no longer seen

Standing on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at the water rushing by

I wondered

Jesus came willingly
into that ancient
2000-years-ago world

a world that was deeply divided

divided by politics
divided by religion
divided by financial status

by ethnicity
by language
by gender
by ability
by age

And I wondered

would Jesus
born into that
ancient world
in a distant land
would he
recognize his world
in ours

We who are
so deeply
divided

divided by politics
divided by religion
divided by financial status
by ethnicity
by language
by gender
by ability
by age

Jesus’ world
in many ways
not so different from ours

Jesus came willingly
into that world

to show a different way
an alternative way
a better
life-sustaining way

He came
to challenge
the self-sufficiency
of the time

He came
to disrupt the complacency
to confront the cruelty
to oppose the callousness
to expose the injustice

He poked and prodded and provoked

He risked scandal and censure
Without a thought
for his own comfort

for his own preferences

his own safety

In Christ’s family
In this family
there is no one in
no one out
no insider
no outsider

In Christ’s family
In this family
There are only
children of God

In the deepest place in me
in the truest part of who I am

I long for this
I long for a place

where the divisions of the world
are put aside

where each person is known
and valued
and loved

where flaws are seen
and challenged
but never judged

where cruelty is replaced with
compassion

where judgment is replaced with
understanding

where corruption is replaced with
justice

where difficult truths are told
in deeply embedded
love

where perfection is never expected
but always sought

which is only
only

only possible

through Christ

In Christ’s family
In this family
there are only children of God

I long for this
I long for this place

this water
this table
this forgiveness
this joy
this peace

…

Standing somewhere
along the banks of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet

As Jesus walked down to the river

As his feet entered the cold water

As he prepared to be baptized

As he began his public ministry

In that moment

Did Jesus pause

Did he look out at the water rushing by
and think

about all that lay ahead
about all that that moment
would set in motion
Moving as
inexorably forward
as the water
in that never pausing
Jordan River?

Did he think about
his life
which would be given

for us

Teaching and healing
and challenging and forgiving
and loving

Jesus would spend his life
for us

All
leading up to a meal
shared with his friends
on the last night
of his life

A meal which took simple bread
and declared it to be
holy

“My body,”
he cried,
“Broken for you.”

A meal which took simple wine
and declared it to be
holy

“My blood,”
he declared,
“poured out for you.”

In the following hours
as their bodies still digested that meal
of bread and of wine
Jesus was taken from them

Ripped away
accused
and beaten
and mocked
and killed

His broken body
taken down from the cross
taken up by his followers
placed down on the cold floor
on the hollowed out rock
of a tomb

The stone was rolled
With a resounding thud
it fell into place
before the entrance
closing off that tomb
closing them off
from the man they had followed
the Messiah they had longed for
the Savior they had loved

They stood there
holding on to each other
in their grief
their hearts splintered
by the brokenness of his body
by the brokenness of the world

Early in the morning
as the sun began to rise
women
went to the tomb

They came to offer
one last gesture
of care of respect
of love
to the broken body
of the man
the Messiah
the Savior
who had selflessly
offered himself
for them

But
his body

was

not

there

He was gone

In confusion
In anguish
In fear

they walked away

…

But Mary Magdalene stayed

Weeping
Grieving

And then

(Oh, then!)

“Mary”

She hears her name

and in the span of
two syllables
the chaos and fear
of the past few days

Vanish

Unexpectedly…
Hope out of despair
Joy out of heartbreak
Healing out of hurt
Life out of death

Jesus was risen!

In that garden
with the slanted rays of the sun
just touching her tear-stunned eyes

she moves
from soul-wrenching despair
to indescribable joy
in Jesus’
presence

That joy
That JOY

was carried
within Jesus’ body

That joy
That JOY

was carried within Jesus’ body

as he went down into the waters of the Jordan
as he traveled dusty roads
as he taught in synagogues and Temple
as he healed and loved

That joy
That JOY

was carried within Jesus’ body
as he was nailed to the cross
as he was laid in the tomb

That joy
That JOY

that he carried within him
has now
been released
in the full light of day

That potential
That promise
That hope

From the waters of his baptism
to the garden of his resurrection

That joy
offered freely
a gift beyond price

But
Why

Why would Jesus do this
for us

Why would he give so much
for us

Why would he give it all
for us

for you
for me

Why would Jesus do this

…

Jesus saw
a people

not defined by politics
not defined by religion
not defined by financial status
by ethnicity
by language

not defined by gender
by ability
by age

Jesus saw
instead

the image of God
in you
in me

perhaps somewhat sullied
perhaps not entirely luminous

But Jesus saw
that image of God
still
there

Still

It cannot be taken away from you

It cannot be put aside
I cannot be lost

And for that

Jesus was willing
to give it
all

My body, he said, broken for you
My blood, poured out for you

On the shores of the river Jordan
In the Garden of Gethsemane
On the cross of Calvary
In the Garden of his resurrection

His body His blood
A gift given for you

in JOY

And so
we come here
together

recognizing the brokenness
of our lives
our families
our community
our church
our world

We come here knowing that
we have a God who meets us
here

at this water
at this table

On this Easter morning
standing here
in JOY

coming forward
in JOY

Welcomed by the Risen Christ
we come to offer
our hearts and lives
in a gesture
of gratitude
of respect of love
to the Messiah
the Savior
who selflessly
offered himself
for us

on a spiritual path
worn by the passage
of centuries of feet

we come
as children of God

Together in joy

Come

Posted in Easter | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

An Open Letter

Posted on June 2, 2020 by Hedy Collver

An open letter to my friends and colleagues:
I love you.
And I am sorry.

For when words and actions have been used to push you away, knock you down, to tell you that you are less worthy, less valued, less loved…
I am sorry.

For when your voices crying out have been ignored or dismissed or mocked, or silenced…
I am sorry.

For the hurt and harm — physical, emotional, spiritual — done to you, to your loved ones, to your ancestors, to your descendants…
I am sorry.

For when the symbols or doctrine or dogma of faith in God have been used to abuse…
I am sorry.

For any part I have played in perpetuating injustice by action or inaction…
I am sorry.

For all this and for so much more…
I am sorry.

At my confirmation, I affirmed the words spoken over me as an infant at my baptism: “Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?”

I do.
And I am sorry.

And, because I am sorry,
I vow now

to more deeply live
into the vow I took then.

I am sorry.
And I love you.

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Breathe

Posted on May 29, 2020 by Hedy Collver

As long as your heart is beating, as long as there is breath in your lungs, you are a child of God walking upon this earth.

Reach up to place your fingers against your neck. Feel the pulse there, tapping out its rhythm, steady and strong. “Child of God,” it beats out against your fingers. “Child of God.”

Place your hand on your chest, feeling the expansion of your lungs as you breathe in deeply, as your chest deflates with each exhale. This gift of God, the constant in-and-out, life-giving movement. “Beloved,” the quiet rush of air whispers. “Child of God.”

Beloved. Child of God.
That is who we are.
All of us.
All.

And yet.

Although the same inheritance of love is for each person with pulse beneath their skin and breath between their ribs, our world does not agree.

For those whose flesh is of a darker hue the experience of our world is made more pFor those whose flesh is of a darker hue the experience of our world is made more painful, more dangerous, more tenuous simply because of their melanin-rich skin.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength,” Jesus said, “and love your neighbor as yourself.”

How God’s heart must break
to see his beloved children
doing such harm
to his beloved children.

So stop.
Stop.

Just stop.

Stop, and reach up to place your fingers, lovingly, gently against their neck. Feel the pulse there, tapping out its rhythm, steady and strong.

“This is a child of God,”
it beats out against your fingers.
“Child of God.”

Place your hand upon their chest, feeling the expansion of their lungs as they breathe in deeply, as their chest deflates with each exhale. This gift of God, the constant in-and-out, life-giving movement.

“Beloved,”
the quiet rush of air whispers.
“Child of God.”

Beloved children of God, for whom Jesus came to earth to walk with us, pulse beating with his heart’s rhythm, breath moving through his lungs. Beloved children of God for whom Jesus taught and healed and loved and died. Beloved children of God for whom Jesus came back to life to break the chains of our bondage to sin and evil. Beloved children of God for whom the Holy Spirit was given, the breath of life.

Beloved children of God:
STOP.

Stop breaking God’s heart
by hurting
children
beloved of God.

Just stop.

And
then
together
perhaps
we can breathe.

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Memorial Day

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Hedy Collver

Gramps

John 15:12-13 (New Living Translation)
This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you. There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

I grew up hearing stories about my paternal Grandfather’s experiences in the Navy during World War II. My “Grampa Doc” — Dr. William Wallace Hall, Jr. — was a master storyteller, and even the most frightening episodes had an air of humor and suspense. One story that stands out in my memory is of his first solo surgery: a “routine” appendectomy.

The very young Dr. Bill Hall was brought onto his ship as an assistant physician. But when his senior officer was transferred to another ship, he suddenly found himself the head doctor in charge. One evening, a young man was brought into the infirmary with nausea and an intense pain in his side. Grampa immediately diagnosed it as acute appendicitis, and he knew what needed to happen. Only problem? This young doc had never performed the surgery by himself before!

He contacted the captain and suggested that the ship return to port, so that the sick man could receive treatment in more experienced hands. Grampa was told, in no uncertain terms, that this was not even remotely possible, and that the captain considered him to be more than capable of doing what was necessary.

Grampa put on a brave face in front of his patient, then raced off into the corner to quickly consult the pictures and instructions in his textbooks. He informed the captain that the emergency surgery was about to take place, and the course of the enormous ship was altered to minimize the rolling in the waves during the surgery.

Happily, the surgery was a success, Grampa told us with a smile.

I loved listening to him tell his stories. But, as I grew up, I began to realize that my beloved Grampa had told us kids only the “happy ending” stories.

Today, on Memorial Day, we stop to remember those who have given the ultimate sacrifice, losing their lives in wars and conflicts throughout time and across the world. We pray for their families and loved ones, for whom this day is not just about picnics and barbeque, but remembrance and grief.

We give thanks for their service and selflessness. Today, we ask for God’s blessings on each person.

And we pray that wars and violence and conflicts and hostilities would cease, and that all people, everywhere, would one day leave in peace.

Wishing you all a blessed and safe Memorial Day!

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Love Your Enemies

Posted on September 16, 2019 by Hedy Collver

In Jesus' Cell

Luke 6:32-36 (New Living Translation)
“If you love only those who love you, why should you get credit for that? Even sinners love those who love them! And if you do good only to those who do good to you, why should you get credit? Even sinners do that much! And if you lend money only to those who can repay you, why should you get credit? Even sinners will lend to other sinners for a full return. Love your enemies! Do good to them. Lend to them without expecting to be repaid. Then your reward from heaven will be very great, and you will truly be acting as children of the Most High, for he is kind to those who are unthankful and wicked. You must be compassionate, just as your Father is compassionate.”

______________

In my family, we have people on just about every side of every possible argument — political, ideological, societal, theological. I have family members who have deeply-held beliefs that are directly against other equally passionate family members. You name an issue to me, I bet I can come up with at least two names of people in my family who hold completely opposing views.

All this makes for very interesting family gatherings. 😉

For example… in the days leading up to my Grandmother’s funeral in late August, several family members were texting back and forth, making plans to get together while we were all up in New York. It started out innocently enough, who was coming, when they were arriving, where they were staying.

But then one politically charged comment was made. Then another. Followed by a cutting counterargument. It didn’t take long until it was a full-fledged battle via text messages, complete with misunderstandings and with hurt feelings.

Reading these messages between people I love broke my heart. The amazing people in my family are not enemies. They love each other. Deeply! But the divisions in our world, the bitterness and pain and chaos, they have an insidious way of seeping into even the closest connections.

Before I knew it, I felt compelled to join in the argument. This is what I wrote:

“I love you all. And one of the reasons that I love you is knowing how passionate you all are, how committed and strong. And I know you love each other, even when you don’t agree. In just a few days we will all be together to honor the memory of someone important to us all. With this in mind, I would suggest that we step away from this text chain, and, in the intervening hours, remember the love we all have for each other. Because that love is there and it is real. I pray that we never forget that, even when… especially when… we disagree.”

Now, I have to admit that I was not so sure what their reaction would be to that text. Again, my family members are passionate, strong, opinionated people. And I’m a pastor, but they often still see in me the small child they knew with crazy hair. It’s hard for people to take you seriously when they’ve known you since you were a baby, people who have blown your nose or changed your diaper or have seen you as an awkward teenager with braces on your teeth.

But, thanks be to God, that text worked. It diffused the situation. The next text was this: “Amen.” Other family members typed their responses, telling each other how much they loved each other.

This kind of thing is not, unfortunately, something that is unique to my family. Not at all. It’s happening all around us. We see it on the television, with people saying horrible things about people who believe differently than they do. We see it on social media, with cruel words, damaging jokes, bitter arguments. We witness and experience bullying and intolerance and plain old viciousness.

Lines are being drawn, sides chosen. You name the issue, and there are enemies and allies very clearly defined.

It is tragic.

And I don’t believe for a moment
that it is God’s desire for our world,
for our community, for our church,
our families, our lives.

“Love your enemies,” Jesus says in our scripture for today.

In the verses directly before, Jesus had spent the night on a mountain, praying. As the sun rose that morning, he gathered together his friends. They walked together down the mountain to join the crowds below, who were waiting to hear words of wisdom from Jesus, and to be healed by his miraculous powers.

In speaking to those crowds, Jesus began with these words: “God blesses you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours. God blesses you who are hungry now, for you will be satisfied. God blesses you who weep now, for in due time you will laugh.”

What a great start to Jesus’ speech! Those who had walked all the way from Jerusalem, from towns across Judea, even from the northern seacoast towns of Tyre and Sidon, they had come to hear something just like this. Promises of blessing and favor. To those among them who were poor, Jesus promises God’s own Kingdom. To those who were hungry, satisfaction. Those who were grieving, a future with joy.

But then, then Jesus does something that must have really confused them. After that great beginning, he continues on a breath later: “What blessings await you when people hate you and exclude you and mock you and curse you because you follow me. When that happens, be happy!”

“Eh… what?” I can picture the people gathered there turning to those around them, saying, “Did he just say what I think he just said?”

Then he continues to double-down, leading into our scripture for today. “Love your enemies!” Jesus proclaims.

“How?” the people may have thought, “How is that a good idea?”

One of my spiritual heroes, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached on this “Love Your Enemies” text once each year. It was a foundational scripture passage for his ministry and his theology. In a 1957 sermon at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, he said this:

The words of this text glitter in our eyes with a new urgency. Far from being the pious injunction of a utopian dreamer, this command is an absolute necessity for the survival of our civilization. Yes, it is love that will save our world and our civilization, love even for enemies.

I believe that. I believe that the best chance for our society, our country, our world is to rediscover the power of love. Even… perhaps especially… love for our enemies.

This is, quite possibly, the single most challenging command Jesus gives to his followers. And it is, quite possibly, at the same time, the most potentially world-transforming.

“Love your enemies,” Jesus said.

The word for “enemies” in Greek, it’s worse than a person who dislikes you or who is a competitor. It means someone who is actively seeking to harm you. It is someone who is openly hostile toward you. “Love your enemies,” Jesus says.

Really?

That word for “love” in Greek makes this even more challenging! It is one of my all-time favorite words, in any language: agapē. There are other words for “love” in Greek, such as eros, romantic love, or philos, the love we have for our close friends.

But agapē love, it’s something quite special. It’s the love that God has for us. It’s a love that is not blind to the imperfections of the one who is loved. It is a fully aware love, a realistic love. It is a love of choice, of knowing the real person, and still loving, no matter what.

Jesus is asking us to make the conscious, deliberate, intentional, purposeful, incredibly difficult choice to love those who are actively hostile to us and to what we believe in.

Really, Jesus?
Where would we even begin to do such an outrageous thing?

To begin to love our enemies we must begin in a counter-intuitive place. First, we must seek to understand ourselves better.

Jesus tells his friends and the crowd assembled that only loving those who love them back isn’t enough. Even the sinners in the world do that, he says.

Sinner. Harmartia in Greek. It means, literally, to pick up a bow and arrow, to send the arrow shooting through the air, but entirely missing the intended target.

sinner = a person who misses the mark

Harmatia. I don’t know about you, but that strikes home for me. Because I know I miss the mark, in big ways and in small ways, every day.

(Is it just me? How about you?)

Just a few verses past our scripture for today, Jesus says this: “And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying, ‘Friend, let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,’ when you can’t see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye.”

The first step to loving our enemies is simply this: understanding that we are not perfect.

Second, in order to begin to loving our enemies… we seek to understand them better.

It is easy to look at people who are hostile to us, who say painful things, who believe something so different than we do, and to see in them the sinner who misses the mark.

But that person — that group — that makes you so angry, they are sinners just like us who miss the mark… and they also, just like us, bear the image of the God who created them.

That person — that group — whose words and actions make your blood boil, they are people for whom Jesus came to earth. They are people for whom Jesus died and rose again. They are people for whom God yearns. They are, in spite of their differences, our brothers and sisters in this world.

That knowledge can give us the courage we need to begin to reach out.

We have become such a divided nation that it seems almost impossible to reach across the divide. But when we begin to reach out, to build relationships, to build bridges across the chasm, we can begin to understand each other: our motivations, our troubles, our desires, our stories, our hopes and fears and dreams.

When we get to know each other, we can finally begin to see beyond the surface and find common ground for discussion. That does not mean that we will agree! But all our bitter arguing right now is only causing that divide to further deepen and broaden. We need to be bold enough — to be brave enough — to take the first step.

62 years ago, Dr. King said this:

Somewhere somebody must have some sense. Men must see that force begets force, hate begets hate, toughness begets toughness. And it is all a descending spiral, ultimately ending in destruction for all and everybody. Somebody must have sense enough and morality enough to cut off the chain of hate and the chain of evil in the universe. And you do that by love.

“Love your enemies,” Jesus said.

Please understand, this was not an academic exercise for Jesus. Jesus was not asking us to do something he was not willing to do himself. In fact, at the very core of his ministry was loving those who could — and who would — do him harm. “Love your enemies,” Jesus said.

Seven months ago, on a cold February afternoon in Israel, I had the opportunity to stand alone for a moment in the jail cell where Jesus was held in Jerusalem as he awaited the verdict of the court. The people in the tour group I was leading were walking up the steep stairs, and I was left alone in the room.

As I stood there, I remembered how in those hours of Thursday night into Friday morning, he was alone in that cold, dark, damp room carved out of the bedrock stone. The only light by which he could see would have been through a small opening in the ceiling, far above.

Two millennia ago, there were no stairs giving easy access to that room. Earlier in the night, Jesus would have been lowered by rope through that same hole, down into the jail cell below.

As I stood there, I thought about how Jesus would have been able to hear the raised voices of the angry people in the room above him. His enemies, those who were actively seeking to do him harm. Those who would do him harm.

I thought about how he would have known how they would accuse him, the false testimonies that would be hurled against him. I thought about how as he stood alone in that dark jail, Jesus knew — he knew — that that night would end with his death on the cross.

I found myself kneeling down, placing my hands against the rough stone of the floor. Now, I’m a stoic New Englander by birth and by nature, and I don’t express emotion easily. But that day, kneeling on the cold floor of Jesus’ prison, I began to cry.

Because Jesus, the Son of God, through whom our beautiful universe was made, all powerful and magnificent, was willing to put himself completely under the power of those who he knew would do him harm.

Because Jesus loved them. In spite of the enormous, gigantic, monumental mistake they were about to make, in spite of how far they were veering from the mark, Jesus loved them.

When, at the beginning of his earthly ministry, Jesus told the people gathered on that plain on the morning when he and his disciples came down from the mountain after a night of prayer… when Jesus told the crowd “love your enemies,” he knew that his life would end on the cross.

He. Knew.

And he was willing to go to the cross
to show us the depth of his commitment.

But when it comes down to it, this is still one of the most difficult challenges that Jesus gives us: “love your enemies.” So… ultimately, the biggest question is: why? Why in the world would we be willing to do this?

Why?
Because Jesus has already done it for us.
For me.
For you.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

[Thank you, Lynn Henschel, for taking the picture and sharing it with me!]

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ROAR!

Posted on June 3, 2019 by Hedy Collver

Exodus 1:8-14 (New Living Translation)
Eventually, a new king came to power in Egypt who knew nothing about Joseph or what he had done. He said to his people, “Look, the people of Israel now outnumber us and are stronger than we are. We must make a plan to keep them from growing even more. If we don’t, and if war breaks out, they will join our enemies and fight against us. Then they will escape from the country.” So the Egyptians made the Israelites their slaves. They appointed brutal slave drivers over them, hoping to wear them down with crushing labor. They forced them to build the cities of Pithom and Rameses as supply centers for the king. But the more the Egyptians oppressed them, the more the Israelites multiplied and spread, and the more alarmed the Egyptians became. So the Egyptians worked the people of Israel without mercy. They made their lives bitter, forcing them to mix mortar and make bricks and do all the work in the fields. They were ruthless in all their demands.

[Transcript of a sermon delivered at Plantation United Methodist Church, June 2, 2019]

Good morning! This is the first week of our four-week series we’re calling ROAR!  It’s based on the themes from our upcoming Vacation Bible School, which begins on June 17th. Over these next few weeks, our Sanctuary will be transformed with our VBS decorations!  This year, you will see in this space the creation of an amazing jungle as we prepare to welcome well over a hundred children to our campus!

During this series we’ll explore some of the same themes that the kids will, looking at the same scripture: the Book of Exodus. The tagline for the ROAR Vacation Bible School curriculum is: “Life is wild. God is good.” Pretty cool, I think! They are going to have so much fun!

In pondering how to adapt a kids’ theme for us adults, I started thinking about what “ROAR” means…

As a noun, “roar” can mean “the deep cry of a wild animal” — the Merriam-Webster Dictionary uses the example of a lion’s powerful cry. This was the first thing I thought of when I heard the VBS theme. Maybe it sprang to mind first because I was looking at the ROAR logo with a big ol’ lion on it…

Screen Shot 2019-06-02 at 4.40.06 AM

But “roar” can also mean a loud, continuous sound. For example, one of my favorite sounds in the world…

the roar of ocean waves crashing on a beach.

Roar can mean a boisterous, loud, energetic outcry, like the sound of sports fans at the end of the game when their team wins…

the roar of the crowd!

And “roar” can also mean… a loud, deep cry of pain or distress or anger. And it’s this sense of roar that we’ll be looking at today.

The story of Exodus begins with a little exposition, a setting of the scene, letting the reader know the background of all that is to happen. The Book of Genesis (the opening book of the Bible) ends with the story of Joseph, who became the second most powerful man in the land of Egypt. He was Pharaoh’s right-hand man, and, using his influence, Joseph saved his very large family from certain death during a long famine. Joseph’s family, called the “Israelites,” settled down in Egypt, and made their lives there.

But by the time of our scripture today, many, many years have passed — generations! — and the scriptures tell us that the new Pharaoh, the King of Egypt, didn’t remember Joseph as a leader. He just saw the large number of his family’s descendants, foreigners living all throughout his land, as a threat to the safety of his kingdom. And so… he enslaved them.

Men, women, the elderly, parents, the young, all now slaves in Egypt. The conditions were horrible, as they were forced to do back-breaking work of building cities for those who enslaved them. In chapter two, we’ll hear that the people cried out, groaning to God in the pain and distress and anger. Lifting up their spirits in prayer, they roared out their anguish to God.

Here’s what always breaks my heart when I read this part of the Exodus story. Whenever you have a group of people who are oppressed, abused like the Israelites, that always means that there is another group of people who are doing the oppressing, or who witness the oppression and do nothing.

You’ve heard me say this many times over the years, but one of the things that breaks my heart wide open in pain is this:

people created by & loved by God
doing great harm to
people created by & loved by God.

It is just…
awful.
Inconceivable.
Utterly heart-sundering.

Screen Shot 2019-06-02 at 6.44.51 PMWith that in mind…

I’d like to read to you this morning from a book that few non-clergy people ever see, let alone open: The Book of Discipline of The United Methodist Church. It’s kind of the rulebook of our denomination, and it is revised every four years — this is the 2016 version. Changes to the language therein will be discussed (no doubt with vim, vigor, & vitriol) at General Conference next year, in 2020.

In this book, which is neither light nor exciting reading, there is a section called the “Social Principles.” It’s a long statement about all sorts of issues, from science and technology, rights of children, sustainable agriculture, divorce, health care, church and state relations, and on and on. It is a pretty impressively comprehensive document.

And you may be surprised to learn that it is one of the reasons I fell in love with The United Methodist Church.

Not because I agree with every single word in those Social Principles — I don’t!!! — but because I was so impressed that a church would take the time to thoughtfully and prayerfully consider a God-honoring response to each of the issues raised.

Part III of the Social Principles is “The Social Community.” The introduction to this section goes like this… are you sitting comfortably and ready for this? … okay, here goes. The Social Community, paragraph 162…

The rights and privileges a society bestows upon or withholds from those who comprise it indicate the relative esteem in which that society holds particular persons and groups of persons. We affirm all persons as equally valuable in the sight of God. We therefore work toward societies in which each person’s value is recognized, maintained, and strengthened. We support the basic rights of all persons to equal access to housing, education, communication, employment, medical care, legal redress for grievances, and physical protection. We deplore acts of hate or violence against groups or persons based on race, color, national origin, ethnicity, age, gender, disability, status, economic condition, sexual orientation, gender identity, or religious affiliation. Our respect for the inherent dignity of all persons leads us to call for the recognition, protection, and implementation of the principles of The Universal Declaration of Human Rights so that communities and individuals may claim and enjoy their universal, indivisible, and inalienable rights.

Okay… I just totally violated one of my preaching rules: never read a long passage from the Book of Discipline! Thanks for sticking with me through that!

Why did I read that section? Because it matters for the way we live out our faith. At the end of just about every worship service, I close with these words: “What we have said with our lips in this hour, may we believe in our hearts. And what we believe in our hearts, may we practice in our lives.” Our faith is meant to be a lived faith, an active faith, one that makes a difference in our world — not just for us, but for those around us as well.

In the Day 1 curriculum for the ROAR VBS is “When Life Is Unfair… ROAR!” Merriam-Webster defines “unfair” as “marked by injustice, partiality, or deception.”

I’m going to really push my preaching boundaries here this morning, and quote from yet another Methodist policy book, this time The Book of Resolutions:

The United Methodist Church believes God’s love for the world is an active and engaged love, a love seeking justice and liberty. We cannot just be observers. So we care enough about people’s lives to risk interpreting God’s love, to take a stand, to call each of us into a response, no matter how controversial or complex. The church helps us think and act out a faith perspective, not just responding to all the other ‘mind-makers-up’ that exist in our society.

I think they could have found a better phrase than “mind-makers-up” there, but you get the point. Our faith is mean to be a lived one — it is meant to make an actual difference in the world around us. Our faith… it is meant to roar! To roar so loudly as to be heard over the clamor of the world around us, speaking out boldly for justice and compassion and care.

This is a fundamental part of who we are, who we are meant to be. It is so fundamental to our faith, in fact, that it is a part of the ritual that marks the entrance into the life of faith: baptism!

In the ritual of baptism, we usually ask four questions of those being baptized:

First: Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sin?
[response: I do!]

Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?
[response: I do.]

Do you confess Jesus Christ as your Savior, put your whole trust in his grace, and promise to serve him as your Lord, in union with the Church which Christ has opened to people of all ages, nations, and races?
[response: I do.]

According to the grace given to you, will you remain a faithful member of Christ’s holy Church and serve as Christ’s representative in the world?
[response: I will.]

I’ve often thought, as I read those questions to people being baptized, that the order of those four vows was a bit wonky. A few times I’ve actually changed the order, asking first the questions about acknowledging Jesus as Savior and serving as God’s representatives, because, after all, that’s where the Christian faith begins.

* (But I’ve learned over the years that
you just shouldn’t mess too much
with the baptismal ritual…

’cause people… they get really
really
really
mad…)

But think about those questions that we ask! If you’ve been in church for any length of time, you have, no doubt, heard them before. Perhaps you remember answering them yourself, if you were baptized as an adult. These questions are important. These questions were created, crafted with intention and purpose, meant to be a launching pad for our faith!

In baptism, we ask forgiveness for our sins, we acknowledge Jesus as our Lord as the core of our faith, and we promise to serve as Christ’s representative in the world.

We say yes all to this… but what does it mean? How do we serve as Christ’s representative in the world? That second vow tell us how!

Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?

It’s right there in the words of our baptism.

From the time of John Wesley on, from the very beginning of the Methodist movement, this faith, it was meant to be a faith that makes a difference. A faith that moves each of us to look around our world to witness where things are not in line with God’s will, where people are being harmed, where God’s love is not reaching.

And we are called not just to see it, to acknowledge it, but to do something about it. That roar of discontent, of heartbreak, of disillusionment within our spirits, that feeling that something needs to change… that is God roaring within us.

We don’t have to look back thousands of years, to the time of the Israelite slaves in Egypt, we don’t have to look back to witness injustice. We can witness evil, injustice, and oppression right here in our own time, our own world, our country, our community. And we are called to make a difference!

May our voices ROAR,
using whatever influence
and resources and power
God has given us to speak
for those who cannot speak for themselves.

May our actions ROAR,
accepting the freedom and power
God has given us
to actively and boldly resist evil,
injustice, and oppression,
in whatever forms they present themselves!

May our lives
positively ROAR
with God’s grace and love!

 

Posted in Pondering Scripture | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Pockets

Posted on June 2, 2019 by Hedy Collver

A haiku for today,
when I could not find a place to stash my office keys…

Suits are requisite.
And, yet, I am a woman.
I have no pockets.

#clergygirl
#pocketsforall

In the name of all that is holy…
PLEASE explain to me why women’s suits do not have pockets?

🙄

Posted in Random Thoughts | 2 Comments

The Rock

Posted on May 29, 2019 by Hedy Collver

My name is Simōn Petros… the “Rock.”

No, not your modern Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. (Although I am a fan.) No. I’m the original Rock. That’s me: disciple of Jesus, Simōn Petros. Simon Peter.

But that wasn’t always my name. Until just a few years ago, I was known as Simōn Bariōna: Simon, Son of Jonah. It was Jesus who gave me my new name.

He gave it to me after I answered a question. It was a question much discussed among those of us who had left it all to follow Jesus. It was a question I had wrestled with many times in the middle of the night as I watched the stars cross the heavens above. It was a question I had asked myself whenever I watched Jesus heal someone sick, when I witnessed him reaching out with compassion to people who were hurting, when I heard him talk about scripture with such passion and authority and clarity. Over and over again, I asked myself…

“Who is this man?”

Then, one day, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee where I used to fish, Jesus himself asked all of us the very question that had been burning in our hearts for so long:

“Who do you say that I am?”

Before I could stop myself, the answer leapt from my throat: “You are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God!”

It’s as if that answer had been laying within me, all that time, as I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing, what I was learning, as I walked alongside this man who had called me to follow him. I didn’t know it, but the answer was already there.

I mean, who else could he be? This man of such power, such authority, such grace and love and joy. Who else could he be?

“You are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God!”

As I said this, Jesus looked into my eyes, and smiled. “Blessed are you, Simōn Bariōna,” he said, “for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven. And I tell you that you are Peter — Petros — and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

Whoa! Seriously! On this — on this Rock — he was planning to build his community of believers. On this Rock! Me! Suddenly, I could see it! Me, standing by his side, his right-hand-man as he took his position of power in Jerusalem, as he showed the world what he was capable of. This man, this Christ, the Messiah. We had been waiting for him for so long! And I was to be with him, at his side, for it all!

Simōn Petros…
that’s pretty awesome,
I thought.

But things took a weird turn almost immediately after that. Looking back now, I think Jesus had been waiting for one of us to say out loud what we had been thinking: that he was the Messiah.

Because after that, he started talking about how he was going to Jerusalem to suffer and die.

I have to tell you, that was not what I expected. I mean, what would be the point of it? What was the point of having all that knowledge and power and ability, just to go to the Holy City… to die?

No. Just no. He couldn’t mean it. He was so powerful, so awe-inspiring. I had seen him heal people who had been desperately sick for years. I had stood with him as he confounded the snooty intellectuals who tried to trick him. I had witnessed miracles.

What would be the point?

“Get behind me, Satan!” Jesus said. “You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.”

Jesus… he actually called me Satan! Just hold on a second! I thought I was the Rock upon which Jesus’ followers would be built. Now… now I was the devil, the adversary, the tempter. All because I didn’t want this future that Jesus was laying in front of us. It didn’t make sense! A future of confusion and despair. A future without Jesus.

No. No! I didn’t care. I meant what I said. He was the Christ, the Messiah. And I had been waiting my whole life for him. My parents, their parents, their parents… all waiting for him. And he was here. And I… I was a part of it all.

I. Was. The. Rock.

But then…
Jerusalem.

We went to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover together. That Sunday, as we entered the city, people placed their cloaks on the road in front of him, they waved palm branches as a sign of victory, they welcomed him.

But then everything he said would happen… it happened.

He was torn from us. He was taken to trial in front of the elders of our faith. And he suffered. Oh, he suffered. I don’t know what you’ve all heard, but I was there. I had, you could say, a front row seat to it all. Not many of us were able to get in to the chief priest’s courtyard that night, but John got me in. And I heard, right there, all about what had happened.

I can’t tell you, there are no adequate words to explain to you, how terrible that night was. I was so confused, so terrified. I didn’t understand what was happening, I didn’t understand how this had happened! Jesus — this amazing man, this Christ, my Messiah — was being tried as a criminal.

That hit me. A criminal. And I… I was guilty by association. If they found him guilty, what was to keep them from taking me next?

Hear me: I am not proud of what did, of how I acted. I was the Rock. And, that night, the rock shattered. Three times as I stood in that courtyard — a short walking distance between me and the cell where Jesus was being held — three times I was asked if I knew him.

And I denied it.
Three times.

I, Simōn Petros, who had been so excited to stand by Jesus’ side as he took power… I denied even knowing him.

I did not stand by him.
I was too afraid.
And I am so
so
so
sorry.

You, sitting in this sanctuary this morning, you know the story. That mockery of a court, they convicted him. Innocent of anything but stirring up within his followers a desire for the truth. Kind, loving, compassionate, brilliant. He who healed, who taught, who saved us and loved us and challenged us: they convicted him. They hung him on a cross… until he died.

I heard that his body had been taken down from the cross. I heard, because I was too ashamed, too afraid to be there when it happened. I wasn’t there when they took down his broken body, when they placed it in the tomb, when they rolled the stone in place. I wasn’t there.

Some “Rock”
I turned out to be.

Those of us who were still in Jerusalem gathered together that weekend. We huddled together in a room in the city. We were afraid to venture outdoors. Because, who knows what awaited us out there? Were we next for the cross? We stayed inside.

But there was a small group of women, all followers of Jesus along with us, who mastered their fears, and went out. By that time it was very, very early on Sunday morning, and the Sabbath was over. By Law they were now permitted to finish the burial process for Jesus.

I could have gone with them.
I could have done it.
Could have gone to offer him
one last act of love.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t.

They came back with the most extraordinary story! They had seen Jesus. Not Jesus’ body, but actually, really Jesus! Walking around, talking with them, telling them not to be afraid. Jesus.

John and I leapt up, threw open the door to the room where we had been hiding, and we ran. We ran and ran. I felt as though there was something drawing me, pulling me, making me run faster and faster and faster toward that tomb.

But…
When we arrived…
there was
nothing.

No body.
No Jesus.
Nothing.

John and I walked together back to Jerusalem. Back to that room where the rest of our friends were waiting for news. We walked… slowly. We didn’t speak. After all, what was there to say?

Back in that room with our friends, our fellow followers of Jesus, who had been killed: shut away from the world, we sat together. In confusion. In grief. In uncertainty.

Then…
suddenly…
he was there.

He was there with us. Jesus! There, in that room, with the door locked and barred, with us hiding away inside, terrified and uncertain:

He. Was. There.
With us.

Over those next few days, I tried — best I could — to wrap my head around the fact – the undeniable fact — that he was not lying forgotten in a borrowed tomb outside the city of Jerusalem, but was with us. Alive!

All we had seen, all we had learned, all we had experienced: what did it all mean? And what would we do now?

We couldn’t stay in Jerusalem. Things were so tense there, so dangerous still. So we went back to where we came from. I went back — along with Thomas, Nathanael, James, John, and a few others — we went back to the very place where Jesus had first called me: the Sea of Galilee.

I don’t know if you know… but I used to be a fisherman. It was my business, my livelihood. I have fished that sea all of my life. I supported my family, my wife’s family, on the fish I brought back from that beautiful sea. It has been a place of comfort, of familiarity, all of my life. So… we went back.

Remember: we were restless, we were unsure. With anxiety and adrenaline burning within us, as the sun went down over the sea, I took my friends out on my boat to fish.

I told you, I am a life-long fisherman. I know those waters. I didn’t need any of your new-fangled GPS devices, chart plotters, or fish-finder sonars. I just knew where to catch fish. My father had taught me. His father had taught him. Down through the centuries, we were fishermen. So I took my friends out into my boat to fish. To take our minds off of the confusion of all that was happening.

Because there is so much
that I did not know right then…
but I knew these waters.

But that night,
we caught…
nothing.

Tired, smelly, bone-exhausted, we came back to shore early the next morning. As we came closer to the shore, we could see the light of a fire on the rocky beach.

Then we heard a voice call through the lightening skies: “Children, have you caught any fish?”

“Children,” that voice said. Children. Paidia, the voice said. Little children, infants, young sons and daughters.

I should have known.
I should have known right then.
But I didn’t.
Not yet.

“Children, have you caught any fish?”
“No!” we responded.
“Throw your net on the right-hand side of the boat!”

We did. Tired as we were, we threw that net over the starboard side of the boat. We cast that net wide, and watched it, in the morning light of the sun, sinking down, drawing low under the surface of the water.

Then…

The boat tugged to starboard. In our feet, we felt the boat lean to the right, saw the ropes of the net tighten, then strain, then the boat tilted, water spilling in over the side. Looking over the side, we could see fish — so many fish — flapping madly in that net suspended below our boat. We could not pull it in.

I looked back to the shore, where that light from a campfire glowed, where that voice had come from, and… I knew.

And… John whispered with a sound of awe:
“It is the Lord.”

I grabbed my tunic, threw it on, and jumped over the side of the boat toward the water. With every stroke of my arms as I swam toward shore, I thought: “He is here! Oh, my Lord… He is here!”

I actually made it to shore before the boat did. I have no idea how I managed that, but that voice called out again as I touched the shore, saying, “Bring me some of the fish you’ve just caught.”

By then, my other friends had anchored out, just a bit off the beach. I waded back out, and took some of the fish they had already counted out. We had caught 153 large fish in that net, I would later find out. The largest single catch of my life.

But in that moment,
I could not have cared less.

Because… Jesus was waiting for me. 
For us.
He. Was. Here.

And our Savior, our Christ, our Messiah, for whom generations of our families had been waiting, this Rescuer, Redeemer, this Son of the Most High God…

He made us breakfast.

He fed us, tired and hungry and bone-exhausted. He fed us bread and fish. Then he asked me the strangest question:

“Do you love me?”

Do you love me? Of course I loved him! I gave up everything — home, family, job, reputation — everything to follow you, I thought. Of course I love you!

He responded: “Then feed my lambs.”

I thought that finished the discussion. I really did. But then he asked again: “Do you love me?”

My heart hurt, as suddenly I remembered standing in that courtyard in Jerusalem, 70 miles and seemingly a lifetime away, listening to the rooster crow as the sun began to rise the morning as Jesus was held in that prison, awaiting executing.

I remembered how my heart hurt then, how frightened I had been, how uncertain. And I answered his question: “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

“Then take care of my sheep,” he said.

But, even then, Jesus wasn’t finished with me. He drew breath to speak… and I knew what was coming. The spirit within me cringed as he asked a third time:

“Do you love me?”

I answered his question, one last time: “Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.”

“Then feed my sheep,” was his response.

That…
That is when it hit me.

Just days before, standing in the courtyard of the Chief Priests’ house as Jesus was humiliated, as he suffered, three times — three times — I had denied knowing him.

And here, on the shores of the sea that I loved, where he had called me, the Savior I followed had given me the opportunity to declare, out loud, three times, with that same voice that had betrayed him… to declare that I loved Jesus.

And, three times, Jesus had given me the command, the order, the opportunity to show him, to demonstrate to him the depth and seriousness of that love.

By this:
by caring for,
by feeding
his flock.

By giving of myself
out of love
in the same way
Jesus gave of himself
for us.

You and I, we’ve never met face to face. You live two thousand years in my future. But I pray that you, this morning, would know, that you would understand, that this same Jesus who called me by the shores of the Sea of Galilee, this same Jesus who I followed across hundreds of miles, this same Jesus who taught and healed and suffered and died… and who came back to us…

This same Jesus taught
and healed and suffered
and died
and came back …
for you.

It’s not an easy question… but it is the most important one of your life.

My brothers and sisters across the miles and the centuries… as each of us gathered here this beautiful morning… Jesus asks you:

“Do you love me?”
“Then take care of my sheep.”

 

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