As that that beautiful, powerful spiritual says, “When we go down to the river to pray, studying that good old way,” that we find redemption and renewal. That it leads us to walk in newness of life because we are immersed in the waters of baptism and in the current of grace.

That along the shores of the Washita River in Louisiana, St. Paul’s Baptist Church will gather every year for outdoor baptisms. That they will begin by having several worship services throughout the week, and then they will go down to the river to pray. But some of the older members will say, “We’re going down to the old burying ground.” And by that, they do not mean the cemetery behind the church. They are talking about the river. Because we are buried with Christ in baptism to share in the newness of life.

That those waters become like the waters of the Red Sea, where the people of God left their past behind and stepped into liberation and freedom from the bondage of slavery. And they become like the waters of the River Jordan, where John the Baptist plunged Jesus beneath those waters and a voice overhead said about him, and about us, “This is my beloved with whom I am well pleased,” that we are plunged into death. But it is in the river of life, setting aside what is old and embracing what is new.

It is why the early church, back when Rome controlled the world, and Roman authorities were constantly policing congregations, wanting to know what they are up to and limiting what they could do, that the early church didn’t say, “I’m going to church this morning.” They said, “I’m going to the burial society.” Because no one’s interested in what a burial society is up to. That’s not a party you want to crash. But as Richard Lischer reminds us, there is some truth in the name. That we are buried with Christ, setting aside self-sufficiency, where we can lean in to the grace of God, where through the ways of Jesus, we are led from death into new life.

That’s why Peter and Andrew left their nets behind. It’s why Mary sat down and simply listened to Jesus, even though Martha was busy. It’s why Joanna, who was healed by Jesus, made a commitment to support his ministry financially. And it’s why Saul changed his name to Paul. And all of that change is not stress free.

That I’m guessing Jesus did not realize that today is Father’s Day when he said, “I come to set son against father and mother against daughter and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law,” that “I come not to bring peace but a sword.” This is not permission to create division. But it is preparation for it. That Jesus wants us to deeply love our families, to work through conflict and to maintain strong relationships. But when we make our commitment to the love of God and the love of neighbor above all else, there are times where table fellowship can unravel into table arguments. That it’s not permission for division, but it is preparation for it.

That it is the difference between To Kill a Mockingbird and Go Set a Watchman, both written by Harper Lee. That in To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout looks up to her father with great admiration. She is so proud as he is defending Tom Robinson, a black man, against false accusations. But in Go Set a Watchman by the same author, she is disappointed when she finds out that her father attended a Citizens’ Council meeting, supporting and working for segregation, that she vehemently disagrees with him, that there is conflict.

It’s what Dietrich Bonhoeffer describes as the cost of discipleship, where life just becomes harder than it used to be. There’s no such thing as cheap grace. The grace is absolutely free. But it always costs us something. That as we listen and grow, mature and change, we might encounter conflict along the way.

That one of the hardest parts about life and faith is that we cannot control it. Jesus says in order to find our lives, we must lose them. Whereas we might rather hold on to life as tight as possible in order to find it. But instead, we make choices that stretch us, little by little over time, where we care for the vulnerable, cultivate an unlikely friendship, open ourselves up in worship and prayer, share what we have for the benefit of somebody else, listen to a viewpoint different from our own. That these choices stretch us and help us to embrace the newness of life.

So we try to remain unguarded so we can receive the steadfast love of God. As Wendell Berry writes, “Love comprehends the world we fully cannot comprehend it.” That love helps us better understand and navigate the world around us, but we will never fully understand the height or depth, length or width of the steadfast love of God. So we cannot control it. All we can do is follow it.

That apparently grace is more than a rumor. Diana Shertenlieb attends a church in Atlanta where years ago her priest encouraged her to participate in their prison ministry by writing letters to Josh Bishop, a 22-year-old inmate on Death Row. Hesitantly, she put that first stamp on an envelope and put it in the mail. And over time, a friendship started to begin. In fact, she and her husband, Gary, started visiting John in prison, and she was so surprised when she first met him because he looked so young. And she learned that he had been abandoned by his father and neglected by his mother, that he had slept under bridges, eaten out of trash cans, and fended for himself.

And as they started to get to know one another, she shared with him what her faith meant to her. And he asked questions and she brought him books to read. He was unguarded and open and he found something that grounded him. He experienced love and it changed him. And at the age of 23 he was immersed in the waters of baptism and Diana and Gary became his godparents. And then he tried to find ways to serve others, even from prison. That he worked with a clinic through Mercer Law School where he helped teach 50 law students, sharing with them lessons about justice that they could not learn in any other classroom. And he worked with teenagers, encouraging them to make good, wise decisions, avoiding some of the missteps that he had made, that he walked in newness of life.

And Diana almost didn’t write that first letter. But she was so thankful that she did. Because she stepped into newness of life as well, that we go down to the water to pray, studying that good old way where we step into the current of grace, that we might look up at the picture of baptism, and we might try to listen for the sound of water. We might imagine the current of the river surrounding us. We might let the waters run over our hands, remembering that God’s grace washes over our lives.

Like the waters of the Red Sea and of the River Jordan, through the ways of Jesus, the current of grace always carries us forward into new life. Amen.

In 1961, on Pentecost—or Wit Sunday—Dag Hammarskjöld sat down to make an entry in his journal. He was the second Secretary General of the UN, the youngest person to ever hold that position. He was elected when he was 47 years old. And later on that same year, he died tragically in a plane crash. Following, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. And following the crash, they found his personal journal. And later on, it was published, entitled Markings. And it has become a classic in spirituality.

“And on Pentecost,” he wrote, “I don’t know who or what put the question. I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment, I did answer yes to someone or something. And from that hour, I was certain that existence is meaningful and that therefore my life in self surrender had a goal.” It is quite powerful. That we might not remember the exact moment of when the question was put before us, but when we said yes to someone, to God, that we discovered significant meaning and purpose in our lives.

And one reason that Pentecost is also known as “Wit Sunday” is that historically and traditionally Pentecost has been a day in the church to celebrate baptism, where baptismal candidates put on white robes, where “white robe Sunday” becomes Wit Sunday. And baptism has long been an expression of our shared calling, our shared purpose, where we make a commitment to follow Jesus.

And we might be more inclined to follow the Jesus who says, “Come to me all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest,” than the Jesus who says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” Because down here in Alabama, especially during this time of year, we know that the hard work in the fields is quite difficult, quite taxing. That we need that rest that we find in Jesus. We need to hear again and again that “today’s worries are enough for today and that tomorrow’s troubles will tend to themselves.”

That rest alone cannot fully address the problems in this world. It’s like that technique called facing used in grocery stores where they pull every item to the edge of the shelf and turn it out to face the customer so that the shelves always look fully stocked. That there is someone whose job it is just to wander around the store and make sure everything is facing the customer. That if there’s only one can of tomatoes left, they’ll pull it to the edge, face it outwards so that it looks like they’re not about to run out.

The world is full of gaps and holes, challenges that we need to acknowledge and face. But as Richard Lischer reminds us, the Gospel is not a problem solver, it is a promise. It’s a promise from the one that we said yes to, to always be with us, to guide us through all of those challenges. And we find deep meaning as we care for one another through all of those challenges.

That here in this passage that reminds us that the harvest is plentiful, it is the first time that the Gospel of Matthew uses the word disciple. It is almost as if this is the job description of a disciple. We’re like Jesus, we are to care for the sick, support the vulnerable, offer compassion to all. And the good news is, it doesn’t require a list of certifications. We are to go out without bag, without belt. That compassion does not mean we can type 80 words per minute. And empathy does not mean we’re proficient in Excel. And patience does not ask us to be an expert in AI.

And if this is the job description in the Gospel of Matthew, the passage we read from Romans is the other duties as assigned, which usually turn out to be the most important part of any job description because those other duties always come up. And they are usually the less glamorous parts of the job description. Maybe that’s why we don’t say them out loud on the front end. They’re just other duties as assigned that we don’t always want to do them. The CEO doesn’t want to be bothered with the invoice of new bathroom fixtures. The attorney doesn’t want to be bothered ordering pens for the firm and the accountant does not want to water the plants in the break room. They are the other duties as assigned. But they are essential.

And Romans focuses in on them, whereas they might be unpleasant, they are unavoidable. Where suffering leads to endurance and endurance leads to character and where character leads to hope and where hope does not disappoint. That they are never listed explicitly on the job description of a disciple, but if we have ever tried to love anyone, we know that we will experience this. But there is deep purpose and meaning found through them.

In his novel, Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry writes about this small town in the midst of upheaval and change, that people are buying cars for the very first time, which means they are moving out to other locations. There are farmers trying to adapt and survive as there are new machines that can be used in the field. That change is happening at a rate that it is tearing at the very fabric of their lives. And Jayber, the local barber and gravedigger says, it is not a terrible thing to love the world knowing that the world is always passing and irrecoverable to be known only in loss. That change is inevitable. But he says, to love anything good at any cost is a bargain. That alongside the hardship is this deep meaning and purpose, which we call faith, something that we do together.

It is the faith that we read about in Galatians 2, where in verse 16 it says, we know that a person is justified not by works of the law, but through faith in Jesus Christ. That’s how the New Revised Standard Version translates it. Faith in Jesus Christ. But the King James Version translates it differently where it says, knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ. And there’s a difference. Faith in Jesus Christ, where we put our belief and faith or the faith of Jesus Christ, the same faith that we find in Jesus. And the grammar of the Greek allows for both.

And we need both faith in Jesus and the faith of Jesus. That we need faith in Jesus because we can’t do this on our own. We need the one who says, come, all who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. And we need the faith of Jesus. Because the harvest is plentiful and the laborers are few. Whereas we love others, we face suffering. We embrace endurance. We develop character and we discover hope. That as we say “yes,” we receive this shared call, but it is full of meaning and purpose. Amen.

I still remember where I was standing. It was on the back riser in the choir room of the First Baptist Church of Augusta, Georgia during youth choir rehearsal. Stan was waving his arms in the air and I was trying not to sound off key, but I wasn’t succeeding. And we were singing that beautiful anthem, “Many Gifts, One Spirit” by Alan Pote speaks of many gifts and a shared calling where we would sing “many gifts, one spirit, many songs, one voice, many reasons, one promise, many questions, one choice.”

And then we would sing, “Help us learn to love each other. Show us ways to understand we are members of one family. We are growing strong by joining hands”. And most of the time when we hear those words, it makes us think of the life of a local congregation. The many gifts of Auburn First Baptist Church and our shared calling with one another at the corner of College and Glenn.

But today, those words echo with a much larger meaning because on Pentecost, we cannot help but think about our brothers and sisters in Christ around the world. Those words sound different.

Help us learn to love each other.

We are no longer talking about our close friends in Sunday school. We are thinking about our brothers and sisters from around the world, people who are from different places, various cultures, different languages and races from a range of countries.

Like the anthem says, “Take our many ways of working. Blend the colors of each soul into the beauty of a rainbow. Give us life and make us whole.” That is Pentecost, where the winds blow and people gather. There were Parthians, Medes, Elamites, residents of Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Pontus, Asia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs, all in one place together.

It’s like walking through the big city. And at night you sit down around the dinner table with your friends and family and you say, I heard every language from around the world today. And as the Spirit filled that room, they could talk and understand one another where division was transformed into community and where the stranger was not so strange anymore. That that is the mantle of the church. It is our birthright, our gift, our calling. It’s everything we find inside the welcome of the church, and it is God’s hope for us.

But the beginning of Pentecost did not happen on that day and in that room. The beginning of Pentecost happened on a different day in a different room. As Richard Lischer reminds us, Jesus was telling the disciples he was going to leave them. And then he got up from the table and he took a towel and he washed their feet. And he talked about the suffering to come. And then he promised to send them an advocate, the Spirit to be with them. And then Jesus prayed for the disciples and everyone who would come after them, which includes us and all of our brothers and sisters around the world. And Jesus prayed, may they be one.

That Pentecost began in that hard and uncertain moment, rooted in that sacred prayer, showing us the way of grit and grace, where division is transformed into community, and where the stranger is not so strange anymore.

Pentecost is not the first mention of the stranger in Scripture. All the way back there in Exodus 22:21, it says, “You shall not wrong or oppress the resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” Or in Matthew 25:35, Jesus says, “I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” Or Ephesians 2:19 where Paul says, “You’re no longer strangers or aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God.” Or Hebrews 13:2: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” When God throws a party on Pentecost, everyone is invited.

As Luke Powery writes, “Difference is not demonic.” In 1968, after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., Jane Elliott, a third grade teacher in Iowa, was trying to figure out how she was going to explain to her third graders why anyone would want to assassinate King. So she decided to try and make prejudice more tangible. So at the beginning of class she stood up and she divided the students. Students with brown eyes over here. Students with blue eyes over here. And then she told everyone the students with brown eyes are superior. And they got extra time at recess. And they had less work assignments. And the two groups were not allowed to play with one another and quickly the students with brown eyes started to treat the students with blue eyes terrible.

The next day at the beginning of class, she stood up and she said, I made a mistake. It’s actually the students with blue eyes who are better. And in record time, the students started to reflect their new reality. It was a complete reversal. As they followed up with these students after their experience, they said that on the day they were assigned to the lesser group, that they felt sad. And on the day they were assigned to the superior group, they felt happy. And their work and their performance reflected it. And then 10 and 20 years later, they followed up with these students and they showed to be less prejudiced than their peers because of the experience they had in the third grade.

Toni Morrison once wrote, “Why should we want to close the distance between people when we can just close the gate? Why befriend the stranger when we can just ignore or reject him or her?” She writes, “Because we are already close, as close as the dirt and dust of our common home as mortals, as close as the common breath in our bodies from the Spirit.” Pentecost calls us together and then sends us out to welcome and care for the stranger.

And all of this helps us to keep our Bible straight, as we all learned growing up: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish and may have eternal life.” And we never want to diminish the meaning of that verse or diminish the meaning of the cross by getting that verb wrong. For God so loved the world, which includes the stranger. It does not say, “God so tolerated the world,” like angry bickering siblings in the back of the car during a long road trip. And it does not say, “For God so established the world,” where we’re all supposed to stay in our defined roles like a neat corporate job chart. And it does not say, for God so pitied the world, where we feel bad for others, but we do not befriend them. It says, “For God so loved the world” and everyone in it.

And it’s why on Pentecost, the winds of the Spirit bring us together. And today, on this day, we remember our brothers and sisters around the world, the one family of God. And how being a part of this church changes and transforms how we friend the stranger. Amen.

Latria Graham remembers long afternoons of collecting black walnuts as a child. That the neighbors would pay children to go out and collect the walnuts in these large five gallon buckets. Because one tree can produce 15,000 nuts in a single year. And then she remembers gathering around the kitchen table at night with those five gallon buckets sitting at their feet cracking and shelling the walnuts trying to bag them up and just listening to all the stories that the family would share. Like her dad telling tall tales about him and her uncle playing cowboys as children. That she learned everything she needs to know about her family and herself from all those evenings. And some nights she would eat more than she would bag. But the ones she didn’t eat, they would bag them up and sell them at the family’s farm stand on Saturday morning.

Black walnuts are fascinating. It is said that other trees and bushes will not grow around them, which is partly true. That they release this chemical called juglone, which deters other plants from growing around them that might compete for the same resources. And you’ve got to be pretty determined to crack a black walnut. It has one of the toughest and hardest shells and she says her family are like those walnuts, tough exteriors, strong defenses. But as she says, they are worth the work.

And in Acts, Paul is traveling from place to place, meeting people with all these different experiences and varied questions. Most of the time they are meeting people in the local synagogue, but in Athens, he is debating and having conversation with the Epicurean and Stoic philosophers, some of the most educated people in Athens and in the world. And they take Paul down to the Areopagus where this judicial group would gather and ask Paul to explain this new teaching that they were putting Paul’s faith on trial.

And instead of criticizing these philosophers, Paul tries to make a connection with them. He does not tear them down. He does not try to prove that they are wrong. Instead, he tries to build a bridge to them. He points to this altar to an unknown God and says, let me tell you about this God. And then Paul quotes a well-known Epicurean saying that this is the God in whom we live and move and have our being. Because we are all children of God.

We find confrontation again in the letter of 1 Peter. This time it’s a little bit more dangerous. There is more anger and aggression and the people are unsure about what to do. But this letter does not advise them like the boxer to keep their chin tucked in and their left hand up high. They are not to lead with their jab and get ready for a right cross. Instead, they are to make their defense with gentleness and respect. And if we begin where Paul began, where all people are God’s children, it leads us to the wisdom of gentleness and respect. Because a kind word and a gentle response can build a bridge of change.

But it requires a light touch. And whenever I order something where some assembly is required and I’m out there in the garage surrounded by screws and bolts and parts that I cannot name or identify, I am thankful for those directions that I go through those numbered steps one by one. And I read carefully those simple diagrams because I don’t want the chair to fail or the table to fall apart. That’s a terrible dinner party. But I am always perplexed when the directions say, do not over tighten. Because when I have that bolt in my hand, I assume if tight is good, tighter is better. And I take that socket wrench and I put my full weight into that final quarter turn. The only problem is it can damage the bolt. It can strip the threads, causing much larger problems. That relating to others requires a light touch.

And along with a light touch, we also need quiet eyes. Quiet eyes are different from jumpy eyes. Jumpy eyes is like the bird watcher who has had too much coffee. Looking left and looking right, but never seeing anything. Quiet eyes does not try to see everything. Because in trying to see everything, we end up seeing nothing. That we cannot look at a person’s clothes, or where they are from, or what they do for a living, or how they speak, or how they spell their name, or the color of their skin, the religion they profess, the family they belong to, the person they love, or the past they have experienced and expect to see what is truly important. That quiet eyes helps us concentrate on one thing, where we always see others as children of God. And it leads us to gentleness and respect.

And as we practice a light touch and quiet eyes, it leads to change. That building bridges always leads us to new destinations. That we discover friendships that we didn’t know were possible. We foster a patience within us that we didn’t know we could have. That we ask questions that lead us more to the presence of God around us. We share our story and it alters someone else’s story. We experience again how love bears all things and how love never ends. That we cross bridges which serve this world and strive for peace, compassion, and hope. Because people are worth the work.

And sometimes these changes happen around us. Other times, those changes happen within us. In his beautiful novel, Theo of Golden, Alan Levi writes about the character by the name of Kendrick. Kendrick is carrying around significant heartache because his daughter was injured in an automobile accident. And the hearing is upon them where Mr. Mendez, the driver of the other vehicle, is going to be sentenced. And Kendrick is going to the hearing because he’s able to share how he feels and the heartache that his family has experienced. And the court can take that into consideration in the sentencing process.

Before he leaves the house that day, his grandmother says to him, “Just remember there is mercy and there is justice. And when you are not sure what to choose, choose mercy.” Because bad mercy does not hurt like bad justice. And the prosecutor explaining all of the sentencing options then gave Kendrick a chance to speak. And his answer even surprised himself. He said, “To be honest, 18 months ago, I would not have cared what you did to Mr. Mendez. You could have given him the harshest sentence possible. But yesterday, I saw him for the first time and I saw his pain and I saw the tears in his eyes. That up until yesterday he was just an idea to me. This thing that had hurt my little girl. Then I saw his face.”

And he asked the prosecutor, “Did you look? I mean really look, not just a glance, not just a quick peek. Did you really look?” And a light touch and quiet eyes allow us to really look. And when we do, we can see others as children of God, where our response might surprise even ourselves. Realizing again that people are always worth the work. Amen.

Thomas Fuller writes for the first page of the New York Times. But in 2021, he moved to California to immerse himself in a story about the eight-man football team at the California School for the Deaf at Riverside. That they played not only other schools for the deaf, but also hearing schools. And eight-man football is a big deal in California, but they had suffered many long seasons of defeat. They were now quickly on the rise.

In the first game he ever attended at the California School for the Deaf, he left with this initial impression: the lack of noise. There was no loudspeaker. They didn’t announce the names of the captains before kickoff. They didn’t play music in between the plays. Instead, it was all of these quiet, signed conversations in the bleachers. And they won the state championship in 2022. It made national headlines, but it was more than just a story about winning a championship. It was more than a story about overcoming great odds. It was a story about belonging, commitment, and community because they shared far more than just footages.

A little-known fact is that the huddle, where the offense huddles up before each play, was invented in 1894 at Gallaudet University, which is a university for the deaf. They started to huddle up before each play so the defense could not see their signed conversation. Gallaudet is the home of the huddle.

And when the school at Riverside won its semifinal game before going to the state championship, they had just beat a hearing team and a journalist stopped the coach from the other team after the game to ask him a question and the coach said, would say be careful in thinking that you have an advantage. They communicate better than any team I have ever coached against. It reminds us of that proverb, if you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.

And the letter of 1 Peter describes the church for early congregations under persecution, that they are under constant duress, questioning whether it is all worth it. And this letter reminds them that they are living stones fashioned together by God. It goes on to say that the church is a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, all of which is meant to prop up a people who are pushed down. That under different circumstances, those same titles could fuel privilege and pride. So for us today as living stones, our identity is rooted in becoming the body of Christ where God is the grand architect, fashioning together the living stones, as it says in 1 Peter, for us to become the hands and feet of Christ, not superior to others, but serving them.

It is as Drew Holcomb sings, you gotta find your people, the ones who make you feel whole. Because we are transformed by one another. And this story about Saul and Stephen demonstrates this transformation where Stephen is the first martyr of the church and Saul, later known as Paul, was there on the day of this terrible tragedy. That Saul and others were seeking out and trying to uncover followers of Jesus and Stephen was guilty as charged. And when the crowd stoned him, Stephen echoes those words that we hear Jesus say on the cross, Lord, do not hold this sin against them.

This was not the flashing light on the way to Damascus. This is not when Saul heard the voice of Christ, but the voice of Stephen echoing those words of forgiveness. Perhaps they seeped down into Saul’s life so that when he was on his way to Damascus, a door was open where he could see and hear something different. Because Saul stood in a place of harm and hate, where Paul would stand in a place of hope and healing. That when Saul became Paul, fashioned together as the body of Christ, he spent the rest of his life as the apostle to the Gentiles expanding community instead of restricting, which was quite the building project.

And one of the most significant architectural achievements of the Renaissance is undoubtedly the dome over the Florence Cathedral in Italy. The original plan was to take the statue of David by Michelangelo and put it up on top of the dome. But when the Catholic Church saw David’s wardrobe, they decided on a more modest location. But the architect, Filippo Brunelleschi, was both an amateur and a genius. He created all these machines that had never been seen before in order to construct this dome, defying the engineering techniques of the day. There are five million bricks in the dome in a herringbone pattern and no mortar was used. It is a self-supporting structure, which is amazing because in the top of it is an oculus. There is a hole in the middle of the dome. And standing there, looking up at this structure, we are left with this breathless question.

And the church is left with a similar question. How can a group of people be fashioned together as the body of Christ? To be a people is to have a story. It’s what fashions us together. And when we tell our story, we might talk about looking down at that form that the school gives you at the beginning of the year and not having a name to put next to emergency contact for our child until we came to this place. Or as one church member did, just write down the church office phone number.

Or we might talk about standing up here on Youth Sunday and preaching or praying and then being celebrated by this congregation and it changing how we see ourselves. Or we might talk about that unplanned conversation that we fell into after the Sunday school lesson with someone who had already been down the path of grief, how that conversation unlocked a strength in us where we felt like we could travel it as well. Or we might talk about that joy that we stumbled upon in serving others, whether it was just handing out bags of snacks through the Auburn Sustenance Project or teaching children at Touching Miami with Love, where all of a sudden our world felt bigger and fuller. That our story is rooted in the love of Christ and in the grace of God that fashions us together as the body of Christ.

If you’ve ever tried out for the school play, you know that there is this jubilant camaraderie amongst all the cast members. Whether you’re out on stage or you’re working behind the curtain, there’s this wonderful bond that happens through all the performances and rehearsals, through telling the story together and participating in it. And Annie Dillard says that worship is like rehearsing a play. That we’ve been rehearsing this story and participating in it for thousands of years, and we’re still trying to work out all the kinks. That we don’t rehearse this story in order to get it perfect. We keep rehearsing it and participating in it to keep it at the forefront of our lives.

Because we have to be careful in how we tell our story. That our story is not about who we are not, that we’re not like this, we’re not like that, we’re certainly not like them. When we tell that kind of story, it’s usually born out of old wounds. But our story needs to say something, not just avoid something. And our story is also not about an enemy. We can’t define ourselves by who we are against. Our story must have a greater and fuller purpose. That our story is about what we are for. We are for humility and healing. We are for kindness and concern. We are for grace and generosity. We are for forgiveness and faith. We are for listening and love. That is our story.

And as Stanley Hauerwas says, we need to keep our story straight. Because as we rehearse it, as we participate in it, it changes us as we are fashioned together as the body of Christ. Amen.

Every college football team, as you know, has its own traditions and personality. So growing up close to Columbia, South Carolina, I oftentimes heard about the “chicken curse,” where the University of South Carolina knows what it means to lose close games. And Amanda Heckert, a Gamecocks fan, writes about the first time she ever was able to storm the field. It was the season opener of the year 2000. They had not won a game in two years. They had suffered through so many noon kickoffs, high temperatures, extreme humidity, they started to refer to themselves as the “Shamecocks”. But at the end of 1999, they went out and hired the legendary football coach from the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, Lou Holtz. And in the season opener, they beat New Mexico State 31 to 0. And they stormed the field in celebration.

The second time she remembers ever storming the field after a Gamecocks win was one week later. They played the ninth-ranked Georgia Bulldogs. And they won 21 to zero, snapping an 18 SEC game losing streak. Now, 26 years later, she’s still waiting on the third time to storm the field. That chicken curse. There are these glorious moments of celebration. The kick six, the prayer in Jordan-Hare, where you storm the field, you celebrate, but there’s also more to game day than just storming the field.

There is watching the eagle fly. There’s the band high-stepping its way onto the field. There’s sitting next to your grandparents in their season tickets they’ve had for decades. There’s your favorite stadium food. There’s tailgating with friends. They are less obvious, but no less meaningful. And if we pay attention, as in life, we discover the importance of what is oftentimes overlooked. As Evelyn Underhill writes, “For lack of attentiveness, a thousand forms of loveliness elude us every day.”

The book of Acts shares with us the story of the church. And it talks about that grand day, the beginning of the church, which we call Pentecost, that whirlwind of celebration, where people gathered from all over. And Peter stands up, invites the people into the waters of baptism. It says 3,000 were added that day, a glorious celebration. But so quickly and quietly does the story then unfold into a thousand overlooked daily acts of grace. That they started to gather on the Lord’s Day, the day of resurrection, that they brought their gifts and talents for the benefit of all. They broke bread. They shared stories. They supported one another. They gathered around the table of grace.

And the legs of this table take us on a journey, a journey of a thousand forms of loveliness, like the road to Emmaus, where those two disciples traveling still in the long shadows of crucifixion, but before the sun set on Easter day, they were walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus. And along the way, Jesus joins them. But they can’t recognize Jesus. They could not believe how this stranger had not heard or was aware of all the events that had taken place, referring to the tragedy of Good Friday, where this prophet, Jesus, to whom so many had pinned their hopes, was now gone.

And as Jesus walked with them, He also walked them through the pages of Scripture, pointing out all of these overlooked ways for how the Messiah was to endure suffering for the sake of the steadfast love of God for this world. And then they got to that fork in the road. And Jesus seemed to be going on without them. But these two disciples offered hospitality to this stranger, come, stay with us. So they all go into Emmaus and then gathered around the table. They broke bread and they caught a glimmer of who Jesus really was. Whenever you do this, do this in remembrance of me.

The grace of God was undeniable and they asked themselves, were not our hearts burning along the way within us. And it is that question that invites us to pay attention to where God might show up along the way, seeing a thousand forms of loveliness that might elude us otherwise.

And it’s along this journey that we might pick up and receive all of these gifts of grace and goodness. Growing up, my favorite television show was MacGyver. That Mack, as everybody called him, would go into the field on these dangerous missions. But the only thing he ever took with him was a pocket knife. In fact, there was one of these early episodes where he’s going into this dangerous location and he’s got this small bag around his shoulder and someone says, is that all you’re taking with you? And he says, oh, this isn’t for what I’m taking with me. It’s for what I find along the way. That he would pick up a paperclip, grab a rubber band, just happened to have some spearmint chewing gum in his pocket, and he disarmed the bomb.

That likewise, along the road to Emmaus and in our lives, we pick up along the way gifts of grace and goodness. And so oftentimes, we find those gifts through one another. But we have to look beyond the postcard in order to see them. That those pictures on those postcards are always pristine and perfect. Sun is always out. It is never raining. Everyone is always smiling. But there’s so much to see beyond the postcard and not just the rainy days or the family arguments on vacation. That happens to all of us. But there are gifts of grace and goodness to see beyond the picture on the postcard.

It’s the smell of the street food cooking in the market. It is the feel of the history of standing in an ancient place. It is the experience of hospitality from the locals that you meet. And it is the same with the church. That beyond the postcard, there are gifts of grace and goodness that are oftentimes overlooked. That there are the saints of this place that teach us so much. There is standing there sharing a hymnal and that feeling of community. And there is that peace which exceeds our understanding and sharing our prayer concerns with one another. There are the questions which are raised and we cannot put them down until we experience God’s presence. And there is the forgiveness that we finally muster up enough strength to offer to somebody else. And there is that laughter that erupts even in a committee meeting, and there is the music that speaks to us of God’s love in new ways.

That it is the journey where when we look back, we think to ourselves, were not our hearts burning along the way. Because it’s in this place that so often times we find what one friend has called courage-friends, that we all need courage-friends, people whose presence and prayers give us courage for the day at hand. They are part of the gifts of grace and goodness that we receive along the way. And so often we find courage-friends in those with whom we worship.

It’s like that story that Carlisle Marnie, that great Baptist preacher, tells about his father, where in the later years of his father’s life, he confesses to his preacher’s son how in so many seasons of life, his faith felt rather frail. And Marnie was quite surprised, always seeing his father as someone who was so strong. So he asked his dad, “What kept you going?” Marnie’s father said, “I would always be alright, if I could just make it to the meeting.” That many times we just need to make it to this meeting where we are surrounded by our courage-friends. That it is a gift that we receive and it is a gift that we can offer one another. And perhaps it’s one reason our hearts are burning along the way. Amen.

How many Baptists does it take to change a light bulb? At least 15. One to change the light bulb, three committees to approve it, and someone to bring the fried chicken and potato salad. That whenever we hear a good joke, we cannot keep it to ourselves. Laughter is infectious. Joy needs to be shared.

And there is this old tradition that goes back to the sixth century in the Greek church called Bright Sunday. That on the Sunday following Easter, the church is invited to focus on joy and laughter where there are picnics, dancing, and singing, that it is the Easter laugh. Because God played a big joke on death.

And oftentimes we lose sight of the Joy of God. As William Sloan Coffin writes, “Why are Christians so often so joyless? It is, I think, because too often Christians have only enough religion to make themselves miserable. Guilt they know, but not forgiveness.”

And Peter stands up this morning to declare the good news of Jesus Christ. It’s right after Pentecost. The wind has blown. The people have gathered. Like a good joke that has to be shared. Peter says that Jesus of Nazareth has revealed the steadfast love of God through grace and compassion despite the strain of rejection and the tragedy of crucifixion and ultimately through the surprise of resurrection, that it is the Easter laugh.

And we hear it again in 1 Peter talking about the joy of God and this good news to an early church surrounded by widespread persecution. It was a letter meant to be passed from congregation to congregation and now to ours, reminding us that the love of Christ will not fade or die.

It’s why Ann Weems says we should throw confetti in the sanctuary on Easter morning. The only reference we have to God laughing is Psalm 2. But there is widespread joy throughout the Psalms where mourning is turned into dancing, where God restores the joy of our salvation, where in God’s presence there is the fullness of joy.

And then we don’t have to look very far outside of the Psalms. Where Sarah is laughing when she discovers that she is pregnant. Miriam is singing after the people of God crossed the Red Sea. David is dancing even though Baptists don’t want to admit it. Paul calls us to “rejoice in the Lord always.” Jesus compares the kingdom of God to a wedding banquet. That on this Bright Sunday, we remember how the woman who stayed up all night looking for that one single lost coin, when she finally uncovered it, she went out, invited all the neighbors over, and threw a party. It is the Easter laugh.

And this laughter, of course, is never the cheap laughs at the expense of others. It never demeans. It will not diminish. It is also not the laughter of denial, ignoring the suffering that we find in this world. That whenever we see the hurt or heartache of another, that we acknowledge it, we lament it, we grieve it.

That this joy is more like a surprise party. Where after we leave our favorite hibachi restaurant, our friend says to us, oh, I need to drop something off at a friend’s house. And since we ate so much fried rice and we’re feeling a little sleepy, it doesn’t seem suspicious in the moment. Till we walk into that dark room and the lights quickly come on and people jump out from behind the couch yelling, “Surprise!” We first think it’s for our friend. Until everybody starts wishing us happy birthday. And we can’t believe it. Everyone went to all this trouble for us. We even feel a little foolish that we didn’t see it coming in the first place. But we could not be any happier about being the fool than in that very moment.

That alongside Bright Sunday is another tradition called the holy fool. That a fool never takes himself too seriously. He can even laugh at himself because he knows what it is to take things seriously that truly matter. Think about grandparents sitting down around that tiny little table to have a tea party or dressing up again in full costume alongside their grandchildren walking around saying trick or treat. They don’t mind being silly because they know what truly matters in this life. That we are called to be holy fools.

It’s why St. Francis of Assisi referred to himself as God’s jester. It’s why Paul says the message about the Christ is foolishness. That God has made foolish the wisdom of this world, that we are holy fools. Because we accept that we just might look a little foolish trying to love others in the same way that Christ has loved us.

And there is few things more sacred than joy within the community of faith. That it’s laughing at a committee meeting of all places. It’s a child giggling during baby dedication. It’s the smile on a person’s face when they have first emerged from the waters of baptism. And it is the joy of communion as we say to ourselves, I am included as well. That it is the Easter laugh where we are free to live and love, to serve and play, to forgive and celebrate because of the love of Christ.

Last year, our spring choir celebration, I remember sitting just down front watching our preschool choir walk up to these steps and turn around ready to sing. They were so excited, so proud of what they were about to do. And then, right before their final song, the choir directors handed out instruments, finger cymbals, and a triangle. And I remember those were my favorite songs. You can really make a joyful noise. And you have to be kind of brave or a little foolish to give preschoolers instruments. But we are holy fools.

And as they got their instruments, they stood there with such poise and excitement like racers waiting for the starting gun to go off. They were focused on their choir director waiting for that signal. And then in the middle of their song, the choir director gave the high sign. And they played that triangle and crashed those cymbals with utter conviction. They put their whole body into it. You could see passion and energy. They had this big smile on their face knowing that they were a part of something important. That it was and is conviction of joy. That we are called to be holy fools, leaning into the Love of Christ with that type of conviction, crashing the cymbals and playing the triangle, part of this sacred song, accepting that we might look a little foolish trying to love others in the same way that Christ Loves us as part of that glorious Easter. Amen.

I still remember sitting in those metal bleachers at the Dean Road Recreation Center watching seven and eight year old girls and boys run up and down the basketball court. They’re wearing brand new basketball shoes with bright colors. Their jersey was usually one size too big. And a couple of them had headbands on like their favorite NBA players. And the refs were as much coaches as they were referees. Foul shots took longer than halftime, showing everybody where to stand and how to line up. And they’d come dribbling down the court. And as soon as they passed half court, the defense would swarm the point guard and it was utter pandemonium for a minute until the ball would pop out and then it was like hungry, hungry hippos. Everybody reaching for the ball. But all of a sudden, one player would grab the basketball and run as fast as he could towards the goal and execute a perfect layup followed by his best celebration dance. But then the referee would blow the whistle because he scored on his own goal.

That oftentimes in life we get moving so quickly, surrounded by so much that we run in the wrong direction and score on our own goal. It’s the confusion of misdirection, the chaos of distraction, and in many ways, it is the mistake of effort, thinking that everything relies on ourselves.

The disciples kept discouraging Jesus from going to Jerusalem. Jesus was talking about this suffering that was to come and the disciples kept protesting almost as if they thought they could prevent it from ever happening. But then problems arose as they anticipated and they all ended up abandoning or denying Jesus. They wanted victory. But all of this looked like defeat. And as it turns out, they started running in the wrong direction.

But Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to the tomb early this morning. And I don’t know if you felt it, but the ground shook and an angel descended and rolled the stone away and said to them, do not be afraid. Go tell the disciples, he will meet you in Galilee. That while the disciples were running in one direction, Jesus was running in the other, that what looked like defeat turned out to be victory. Because Easter is more than we can do by ourselves.

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to the tomb on the first day of the week at dawn. And as we look back, God created the world in six days and then God rested on the seventh. But on the eighth day, the first day of the next week, Jesus rose from the grave that it is new creation. What Jesus described as the kingdom of God, where all wrongs would be made right and all sin would be forgiven and all brokenness would be healed.

And it is why so many chapels throughout the history of the church have been built with eight sides constructed as an octagon representing the seven days of creation and then the eighth day, the day of resurrection, the day of re-creation, that they went to the tomb at dawn. And God said again, let there be.

And we feel the problems of our lives and see the problems of this world. And out of fear, we can go running in the wrong direction, assuming it all rests on our shoulders, that we can make the mistake of effort, thinking that it all depends on us. It’s more than we can do by ourselves.

This does not mean we don’t make any effort. The disciples were invited to go to Galilee to go and see Jesus there. And I have a hunch that when Mary Magdalene and the other Mary told them what took place and told them to go to Galilee, that those disciples were not certain about what to do. Because Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were the first preachers of the gospel. Women were not given the same authority as men, that apparently God is not interested in certainty. The way of grace comes to us not through certainty, but by grace.

That we might prefer certainty. It’s why we fall into that mistake of thinking that it all depends on us, that we want to hold it all together under our own strength. Easter breaks loose. The love of God is out there at work.

And there’s this old tradition in the church that speaks to God’s love breaking loose, where we bury the hallelujah at the beginning of Lent. That on Ash Wednesday, we could write the word hallelujah on a piece of paper. We can go outside and dig a hole, and we can bury it. Because during Lent, it is a time of reflection and repentance. So we do not say it or sing it during those days. But on Easter morning, it starts to rise up out of the ground and we cannot hold it back any longer.

That one can try and tie Easter down. In fact, it has been tried. When Jesus was arrested, they sent extra security just to be certain, carrying clubs and swords, leaving nothing up to chance. And after the crucifixion, Pilate thought, just to be certain, I’m gonna send extra guards to stand outside the tomb. That every measure had been taken. Easter was well protected and still. The love of God broke loose.

So we go to Galilee knowing it does not all rest on our shoulders. The love of God is at work. Colossians invites us to seek the things from above, to set our minds on the love of God as our lives are hidden with Christ. But we don’t have to worry about getting a crick in our necks from seeking the things from above, because the things from above are happening below. The risen Christ is in Galilee. And our hallelujahs are breaking free.

That whenever we experience the relief of forgiveness, hallelujah. Whenever we have enough strength to finally forgive somebody else, hallelujah. Whenever we feel like we are welcomed and belong, hallelujah. Whenever we get to begin again with the grace of God, hallelujah. Whenever we rely on the kindness of others, hallelujah. And whenever we go to the margins to offer assistance and help, hallelujah. Whenever we are surprised again by the love of Christ, hallelujah. Because Easter is more than we could ever do by ourselves.

That’s why Frederick Buechner says, to wake up is to be given your life back again. And on this first day, God says to us, let there be life. Because Easter has been set loose. And we shout again, Christ is risen. Hallelujah, indeed. Amen.

In that beloved story about Forrest Gump, located in that fictional town of Greenbow, Alabama, we feel empathy for young Forrest because he seems to have so many odds stacked against him, like learning how to walk or run with his special braces. But throughout this story, there’s all of this contrast: even though there are so many odds stacked against him, Forrest just seems to be in the right place at the right time. So much so that he goes on to become an All-American football player, a Medal of Honor–winning Vietnam veteran, an international ping pong champion, a wealthy business owner. He runs across the country more than once and he’s invited to the White House three different times. That is quite the box of chocolates of life experience.

But so much of life doesn’t simply fall into place because we’re in the right place at the right time. And in looking closely at this story, perhaps it is more about the perseverance of love than the happenstance of life. One of the strongest, most compelling storylines throughout the movie is the love that Forrest holds onto for his childhood friend and future wife, Jenny, throughout the various seasons of life and even in the face of illness. It is the highs and lows and grace of love because love endures.

And in the highest of highs of Palm Sunday, with all of its singing and celebration, it is easy to overlook the endurance of the love of God. But God is a long-distance runner. And we stand at the very beginning of the race here on Palm Sunday with so much still in front of us, including the lowest of lows. That when they arrive at Bethphage just outside of Jerusalem, Jesus sends those two disciples to fetch a donkey. And then riding into the city, they are celebrating, throwing cloaks on the ground and cut branches, saying as loud as they can, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” That they are reciting Psalm 118, where the psalmist keeps saying, “The steadfast love of God endures forever.”

The travelers would recite those words going into Jerusalem. And on this occasion, it’s the beginning of Passover. People are flooding the city, coming to remember and give thanks for God freeing the people out of slavery from Egypt. And now Rome controls Israel, and the people are hoping that God will save them again. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” that it feels like a new Exodus.

But we cannot lose sight of the fact that Jesus is riding into town on a donkey. It does not look like the majesty of God, which is why the grace of God so oftentimes goes unnoticed. It’s why Richard Lisher reminds us that the Hebrew word for hope can also mean waiting. And I have sat in many waiting rooms—ER waiting rooms, surgery waiting rooms, ICU waiting rooms. I’ve sat next to those waiting for test results, surgery reports, updates from doctors, the kind of results and reports that change the course of our lives. And it is hard to believe that hope can also mean waiting.

One of the first waiting rooms I ever visited was in a hospital in North Carolina. I was working as a chaplain one summer while in seminary. It was a pediatric emergency room. And the family had come in because their young daughter had fallen off of a horse and hit her head. And the symptoms were very concerning. And they were waiting on the results from a scan to see if there was a possible brain bleed. And I sat in that room with them and it felt like the walls were just pressing in. They could hardly stay in their chairs. The waiting was so hard.

And then finally the door swung open and the doctor stepped in and said everything is okay. And you just felt the room expand, like the psalmist says, “God will lead us to a broad place,” like the sun had risen again. That we come to learn that waiting is one of the strongest acts of love. And it’s why we need Palm Sunday. We need Palm Sunday with its singing and its celebration because the rest of Holy Week will be filled with painful waiting. That we will wait as Jesus is on trial. We will wait as he is mocked and crucified. We will wait in the silence of Saturday that follows Good Friday.

That we need Palm Sunday because it says to us and it reminds us again that God’s grace is at work. It is here and with us and around us, that we overhear it in the people’s voices: “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” And since it is hard to see the grace of God in the waiting room of life, we benefit from practicing naming grace. That we don’t name grace because we’re trying to ignore or live in denial of what is hard. That we name grace because we are fully aware of what is hard. That it’s hard to see it and to notice it, so we name it so we can hold on to it.

And grace goes by many names. So when we see it, when it shows up, we name it as such. That it is the kindness of a nurse. It is the prayers of a friend. It is a meal chain after the loss of a loved one. It is unexpected forgiveness. It is being told the truth even when we don’t want to hear it. It is hearing the birds chirping during the spring. It is encouragement when we are down. It is the presence of others when we feel alone. It is the congregation singing, “It Is Well with My Soul.” That grace has many names. And we can hold on to it because it helps us as we wait.

And this is what happens on Palm Sunday. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey and people cry out, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” that they are naming grace. And we do well to notice and to name it so we never lose sight of the endurance of the steadfast love of God. Amen.