Easter Hope in a time of death

 Texts: Acts 5.27-32 and  John 20.19-31

So, here we are; the Second Sunday of Easter. The initial joy of Easter morning and a surfeit of chocolate has perhaps subsided a little.  We settle into this new season, trying to grasp what it means to live as people of the resurrection.

And as we gather, we do so with a complex mix of emotions. There’s the persistent echo of Easter joy, yes, but also the very real presence of sadness. We continue to remember John Boulton, whose celebration of life was only two days ago and whose absence is still so tangible in our community. We hold his family and friends in our thoughts and prayers, acknowledging the gap his passing leaves.  And we do so along with the passing of other loved members of our community and families.

Our thoughts also turn naturally to the events of yesterday in Rome – the funeral Mass for Pope Francis. His death on Easter Monday was sudden, and yesterday's farewell brought together world leaders and ordinary faithful in a moment of global remembrance and reflection. It feels significant, perhaps, that just a day after the world formally marked the end of his papacy, we gather here for our own Annual Meeting, reflecting on our small part in the life of the Church Universal.

So, we stand in this space holding local grief for a beloved neighbour and reflecting on the recent farewell to a global spiritual figure, all while trying to live into the Easter message: that mysterious, powerful claim that love is stronger than death, that hope endures beyond loss.

Our readings today meet us right here. In John's Gospel, we find the disciples huddled behind locked doors. It's the very first Easter evening. Resurrection has supposedly happened, but fear and grief are the overwhelming emotions. They've lost their leader in a brutal way, their hopes seem shattered, and they are terrified. The doors are locked fast against a hostile world.

And into that room, saturated with sorrow and fear, Jesus enters. Not breaking down the door, but simply being there among them. His first words? "Peace be with you." Shalom. It's a profound blessing, a deep wish for well-being and wholeness poured into their fractured reality. He acknowledges their state, shows them his wounds – proof that suffering is undeniably real, yet not the ultimate reality – and then breathes his Spirit upon them, commissioning them, turning their grief-stricken huddle into the nascent Church.

We might also remember that profound moment, yesterday, when world leaders gathered around the coffin of the Pope, also shared peace with one another.

But, back to that first Easter day: Thomas wasn't there. Good old Thomas – my namesake, I know! He often gets the label "Doubting Thomas," but perhaps "Honest Thomas" or "Needs-to-see-it-for-himself Thomas" might be fairer. He missed the experience the others had. Is it so wrong that he wanted the same assurance? He wasn't rejecting Jesus; he was articulating a very human need for personal encounter, voicing the doubt that others perhaps felt but kept quiet.

And that honesty, that questioning, is surely part of a real faith journey. It's interesting, isn't it, that Pope Francis, whose life and ministry the world was reflecting on so intently yesterday, often spoke about doubt not as a failure of faith, but as a sign of a living faith – one that seeks and wrestles and grows. He's reported to have said something to the effect that "A faith without doubt is a dead faith." He understood that engaging honestly with our questions is often how we move deeper into relationship with the mystery of God. Thomas models that for us.

And how does Jesus respond to Thomas's need? With utter grace. He appears again, invites the searching questions, offers the very proof Thomas requested: "Put your finger here... reach out your hand..." Again, the greeting is "Peace be with you." It's in that moment of gracious encounter that Thomas makes his great declaration: "My Lord and my God!" Doubt, met by understanding love, blossoms into profound faith. And Jesus’ gentle blessing extends to all of us: "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."

This encounter transforms people. We see the result in Acts. Peter and the apostles, once hiding in fear, are now standing boldly in public, facing the very authorities who condemned Jesus. They are filled with the Holy Spirit Jesus breathed on them. When told to be silent, Peter's response is unwavering: "We must obey God rather than human beings!" They have become witnesses – not because they have all the answers, but because they have encountered the Risen Christ and know that death is not the end.

We see that witness lived out in countless ways. We saw it in the steady, faithful service of John Boulton right here in our community, making a difference in the lives he touched. We saw it on a global scale in the long ministry of Pope Francis, to whom the world formally bade farewell just yesterday – a ministry marked by efforts to follow God's call amidst the complexities and challenges of our time. Both men, in their unique ways, sought to live as witnesses.

And that brings us to our APCM today. Our look back at the past year is more than just reports and accounts. It's our chance to discern where we have been part of that same ongoing story of witness. Where have we, inspired by the Spirit, chosen to "obey God" in small or large ways? Where have we tried to embody Christ’s peace? Where have we wrestled honestly with our faith, like Thomas, and found God meeting us? Where have the fingerprints of the Spirit been visible in our common life, perhaps inspired by the faithfulness we remember – the local faithfulness of John, the global faithfulness of Pope Francis?

The Easter message isn't just a historical event; it's a present reality, empowered by the Spirit. The Risen Christ continues to meet us – in our joys, our griefs, our certainties, and our doubts. He met the disciples in their locked room; he met Thomas in his searching; he meets us here today.

So, as we prepare for our meeting, let's hold these threads together. Let's give thanks for the lives and witness of John Boulton and Pope Francis. Let's embrace the honesty of Thomas, trusting that our questions are welcome. Let's look back with gratitude for the signs of God's work among us this past year. And let's look forward with hope, asking for the Spirit's courage to continue being witnesses to the resurrection, sharing the peace we have received, and living fully as Easter people. For we, with all Christian people, have the confidence to say “Alleluia!  Christ is Risen!  He is risen indeed, Alleluia!”

A Progressive Easter Message

Ah, Easter. Here we are again. Another year, another frantic search for chocolate eggs. Another rendition of stories that, let's be honest, raise more questions than they answer – especially for those who avoid the Christian church, because they think we’re just living off fairy tales.  So let’s consider these tales of the Resurrection of Jesus.  Let’s examine them together.  Come, let us reason together, as God said to Isaiah.

First, let’s consider Luke’s account – the one we’ve just heard. Mary Magdalene and some other women trot off to the tomb. Early. Very early. They find the stone rolled away. Empty. Gone. Then, poof! Two men in dazzling clothes appear. They deliver the news: Jesus isn't there. He has risen. Remember what he said? Back in Galilee? About being handed over? About being crucified? About rising on the third day? The women remember. They rush off. They tell the eleven. But the eleven think it's nonsense. Empty talk. Peter, though, he goes to the tomb. He looks. Just the linen wrappings. He wonders.

Now, what about Matthew’s account. Bit different, isn't it? A violent earthquake. An angel descends. This angel rolls back the stone. Sits on it! Terrifying the guards into a faint. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary arrive. The angel tells them not to be afraid. Jesus has risen. He's going ahead to Galilee. They should tell the disciples. They leave. Quickly. Afraid, yet filled with joy. Then, bam! Jesus himself meets them. They clasp his feet. They worship him. Jesus repeats the Galilee instruction.  Hmmm…that’s basically an entirely different story, about the same event.

Shall we look at Mark? Simplest of the lot. The women arrive. They see a young man. Dressed in white. He tells them Jesus is risen. He's going to Galilee. Tell the disciples. The women flee. They say nothing to anyone. Nothing to the eleven, nothing to Peter.  They are afraid. End of story. Well, the original ending, anyway. Later bits were tacked on.

And John? Mary Magdalene goes alone. The stone is gone. She runs to Peter and the beloved disciple. They both run back. Peter goes in. Sees the linen wrappings. The beloved disciple sees and believes. Mary stays outside. Weeping. She sees two angels. Then Jesus appears. She thinks he's the gardener. He says her name. Mary! She recognizes him. She tries to hold him. He says, "Don't cling to me." He hasn't ascended yet. Go tell the others.

Even Paul, writing much earlier, offers a different take. He lists eyewitnesses. Peter. The twelve. Over five hundred brothers and sisters at once. James. All the apostles. Last of all, Paul himself – in a vision on the road to Damascus. No empty tomb mentioned. No women finding angels. Just appearances.

So, what are we to make of all this? Identical accounts? Not exactly. Harmonious? Not really. Different details. Different emphases. Different characters even. Does this undermine the core message? Some people think so. They clutch at these discrepancies. They declare the whole thing a fabrication. A house of cards built on shaky foundations.

But what if the point isn't the literal, blow-by-blow account?  What if the point is the earth-shattering impact of this Jesus?  This radical rabbi who preached love for enemies. Who challenged the powerful. Who offered hope to the marginalized. This man was executed. Brutally. His followers were devastated. Their dreams lay shattered. Yet, something happened. Something profound. Something that reignited their hope. Something that propelled them out into the world with a message that ultimately turned the Roman Empire upside down. Was it a literal resuscitation of a corpse? Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps the stories of the empty tomb, the angels, the appearances, are the ways these early followers tried to articulate the inexpressible. The dawning realization that even death could not extinguish the flame that Jesus had lit. That his spirit, his message, his way of being in the world, was still alive. In them. Among them.

Could it be that our modern insistence on a physical resurrection, a scientifically verifiable event, is actually hindering belief for many? We live in a world obsessed with proof. With empirical evidence. And frankly, these ancient stories, with their inconsistencies and supernatural elements, don't always fit neatly into that framework.  It’s vital that we understand that the Gospels were not written as historical documents, but, as John says at the end of his Gospel, ‘to inspire belief’. 

What if we shifted our focus? What if we emphasized the spiritual resurrection? The enduring power of Jesus' love. The transformative potential of his teachings. The way his message continues to inspire acts of compassion, justice, and peace, two thousand years later.

Think about it. It’s impossible to deny the impact of Jesus' life and teachings? It’s impossible to dismiss the countless individuals who have been moved to change their lives, to work for a better world, because of him? Isn't that a kind of resurrection? A resurrection of hope. A resurrection of love. A resurrection of the human spirit.

Maybe the details of how it happened matter less than the undeniable fact that it something happened. Something shifted. That the world was never the same. That a small group of frightened disciples were transformed into bold proclaimers of a new reality. A reality where love conquers hate. Where justice rolls down like a mighty river.  Where even death has lost its sting.

So, this Easter, let's celebrate the enduring legacy of Jesus. Let’s not try to persuade our atheist friends and neighbours that they must believe the impossible in order to follow Jesus.  Or that they must ignore the enormous inconsistencies in the text.  Instead, let's embrace the power of his message. Let’s make Christianity credible again, to a modern generation.  Let's allow Jesus’ spirit to be resurrected in our own hearts and actions. For that, my friends, is a resurrection we can all believe in. A resurrection that continues to change the world, one act of love, one step towards justice, at a time. Now that's something worth celebrating.  Amen.

In the light of progressive Christianity, is there any hope of Heaven?

 Okay. Let's talk about the big one: Eternal Life. Specifically, through the lens of progressive Christianity. The title asks: "In the light of progressive Christian teaching, can we have any hope of eternal life?"

Now, let's be honest. For generations, "eternal life" often meant one thing: pearly gates, streets paved with gold (sounds terribly impractical, frankly – imagine the glare!), fluffy clouds, maybe reuniting with Great Aunt Mildred (which, depending on your Great Aunt Mildred, might be more of a threat than a promise), and possibly endless harp practice. It was a destination, a reward, a place you went after shuffling off this mortal coil, hopefully having ticked the right boxes.

Progressive Christianity, bless its questioning heart, tends to look at this traditional picture and... well, cough politely. We see the fingerprints of ancient cosmology, cultural assumptions, and maybe a touch of wishful thinking (or crowd control). We grapple with a God who seems infinitely more interested in justice, mercy, and love here and now than in managing celestial real estate.  And we are open to what both other religions and scientific observation might have to teach us.

So, does ditching the literalist, gated-community afterlife mean we ditch hope altogether? Do we just shrug, say "ashes to ashes," and focus solely on composting? I’d argue: Absolutely not! But our understanding of eternal life gets a radical makeover. It becomes less about duration and more about quality and connection.

Think about it. Jesus didn't spend much time sketching architectural plans for heaven. His central message wasn't "Be good so you can get into the sky-mansion later." It was "The Kingdom of God is at hand." It's here. It's now. It's in the act of feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, challenging oppression, forgiving debts, loving extravagantly – even loving your enemies (still working on that one, if I'm honest).

This "Kingdom" living, this immersion in God's way of love and justice – that has an eternal quality to it. When we participate in acts of selfless love, profound compassion, or courageous justice, we are tapping into something timeless, something divine, something that resonates with the very Ground of Being. That feels pretty eternal to me. It's experiencing the life of the ages, in the midst of time.

So, one progressive hope for eternal life is this: Living a life so infused with divine love and purpose that its significance echoes beyond our physical lifespan. We live on in the love we've shared, the justice we've fought for, the ripples of kindness we've set in motion. Our "eternal life" is woven into the fabric of the ongoing story of God's work in the world. Less harp solos, more positive legacy.

Now, what about the big event? The linchpin of traditional hope? The Resurrection. Ah, yes. The empty tomb. The cornerstone of faith for many.

Progressive Christians don't necessarily throw the Resurrection out, but we certainly look at it with different eyes. We notice, for instance, that the four Gospel accounts – supposedly eyewitness or close-to-eyewitness reports – are, shall we say, charmingly inconsistent on the details. Let's do a quick sketch analysis: 

·           Who went to the tomb? Was it Mary Magdalene alone (John)? Mary Magdalene and "the other Mary" (Matthew)? Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome (Mark)? Or "the women who had come with him from Galilee," including Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and "the others with them" (Luke)? Quite a crowd fluctuation there.

·           What did they see? One angel (Matthew, Mark – sitting inside the tomb in Mark, outside in Matthew)? Two men in dazzling apparel (Luke)? Or just... no Jesus, and then later Jesus himself appearing (John)? Did the stone get rolled away (Matthew), or was it already rolled away (Mark, Luke, John)?

·           What were the instructions? Go tell the disciples to meet him in Galilee (Matthew, Mark)? Or... remember what he told you in Galilee, and then the disciples didn't believe the women anyway (Luke)? Or... Mary just encounters Jesus, thinks he's the gardener, and is told not to cling to him (John)?

·           Where did Jesus first appear to the wider group? In Galilee on a mountain (Matthew)? Or behind locked doors in Jerusalem that very evening (Luke, John)?

Now, a fundamentalist might tie themselves in knots trying to harmonize these accounts into one coherent story – like a crime scene investigation – “C.S.I.: The Jerusalem episode”. A skeptic might just say, "See? It's all made up!"

But a progressive perspective might say: Hold on. What if these discrepancies aren't a sign of fabrication, but a sign of something else? What if they show multiple individuals and communities grappling with an experience so profound, so reality-shattering, that it defied simple, uniform description? What if the core message – that Jesus's presence, power, and message were experienced as overwhelmingly alive and vindicated by God after his brutal execution – is the point, not the precise choreography at the tomb?

The "Resurrection" for many progressives becomes less about a resuscitated corpse wandering around Galilee (though, you know, stranger things...) and more about the transformative experience of the disciples. These weren't people reporting a straightforward event; these were people whose lives were utterly turned upside down. From hiding in fear, they burst out with world-changing courage. They experienced Christ as present, empowering them, validating his message of love and the Kingdom. That experience was the Resurrection event for them, described in the symbolic language available to them.

So, can we hope for our own resurrection? Maybe not in the sense of bodily resuscitation. But hope for what?  

·           Hope for Transformation: Hope that, like the disciples, we can be transformed by the living spirit of Christ, moving from fear to courage, from apathy to action.

·           Hope for Continuation: Hope that the love and energy that constitute "us" are not simply extinguished, but are somehow gathered back into the Source of all Being, the God from whom we came. Maybe "eternal life" is less about individual consciousness persisting forever in a recognisable form, and more about rejoining the great Dance, the eternal energy of Love itself. It's a mystery, and perhaps that's okay.

·           Hope in the Enduring Presence: Hope that the Divine presence experienced by the disciples is still accessible to us now, guiding, comforting, and challenging us.

Progressive Christianity doesn't offer neat, tidy answers shrink-wrapped for easy consumption. It invites us into the questions, into the mystery. It shifts the focus from escaping this world to transforming it, inspired by Jesus. It reframes "eternal life" from an endless future duration to a quality of living steeped in divine love now, leaving a legacy that endures. And it sees the Resurrection less as a historical puzzle to be solved, and more as a powerful testament to the enduring, transformative experience of Christ's presence.

So, can we have hope? Yes. A profound hope. Not necessarily for pearly gates or escaping the cycle, but hope in the enduring power of Love, hope in the meaning we create, hope in our connection to the Divine Mystery that holds us all, before, during, and after our brief, beautiful time on this earth. It’s a hope grounded not in escaping life, but in living it fully, deeply, and justly, participating in the "eternal" quality of God's kingdom, here and now. And frankly, that sounds a lot more interesting than harp lessons.

(Images created with ImageFX from Google Labs)

 

Enemies of Christ

Texts: Philippians 3.17 – 4.1

Luke 13.31-35

Today’s readings invite us to wrestle with uncomfortable truths. Paul, that relentless apostle, writes to the Philippians, "Join together in following my example…for many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their minds are set on earthly things." And then, in contrast, a clarion call: "But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body."   

Let us not shy away from the starkness of this language. "Enemies of the cross." It echoes, does it not, the chilling threat delivered to Jesus in Luke's gospel, "Get away from here, Herod wants to kill you." Herod, the puppet king, the embodiment of earthly power, fearful of a truth that threatened his fragile grasp on control. Herod, who sought to silence the voice of justice, the voice of love, the voice of God. We see then, the same desire to silence truth and love, in both readings.

But who are these "enemies of Christ" that Paul weeps over? Are they the Herods of our time: the tyrants and dictators? Yes, in part. But Paul's gaze is broader, more penetrating. He speaks of those whose "god is their stomach," (which is a challenge to me, very personally!) whose "glory is in their shame," whose "minds are set on earthly things." He speaks of those who prioritize material gain, power, and prestige over the radical love and self-sacrifice that Jesus embodied.

These "enemies of Christ" are not always those who openly reject Jesus. In fact, they very well might be those who claim to follow him, but whose actions betray their words. They might be those who use the language of faith to justify hatred, division, and exclusion. They might be those who cling to rigid doctrines and condemn those who dare to question, those who refuse to see the image of God in those who are different from them.

Think of the politicians who demonize immigrants, who build walls instead of bridges, who peddle fear and division for political gain. Think of the corporations that exploit workers and destroy the environment in the pursuit of profit. Think of the religious leaders who preach intolerance and condemn those who love differently, who live differently, who believe differently. These, friends, are the Herods and the "enemies of Christ" in our midst. (But let us also remember, that we do also see examples of politicians who champion justice, corporations that prioritize sustainability, and religious leaders who promote inclusivity.)

And how do we respond? Do we meet their hatred with hatred? Do we return their condemnation with condemnation? Paul, echoing the very heart of Jesus, calls us to a different path. He calls us to imitate Christ, to follow his example of love, compassion, and forgiveness. He calls us to remember that our citizenship is not in the kingdoms of this world, but in the kingdom of God, a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Jesus, facing Herod's threat, wept over Jerusalem, lamenting, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing!" He wept not with anger, but with sorrow, with a deep and abiding love for those who rejected him. He saw their fear, their blindness, their self-destructive path, and his heart broke.   

We too must weep for those who are lost, for those who are blinded by power and greed, for those who are trapped in cycles of hatred and violence. We must weep, but we must also act. We must speak truth to power, challenge injustice, and stand in solidarity with the oppressed. We must be the hands and feet of Christ, extending love and compassion to all, even to those who seek to harm us.

Paul reminds us that we eagerly await a Saviour who will transform our lowly bodies into his glorious body. Notice this, though. It’s easy to read Paul’s words and to assume that he’s talking about a future heaven, in resurrected bodies. That’s the standard way that this verse is understood. But I want to offer a different take on Paul’s words. We can also read these words not as a promise of escape from the world, but a promise of transformation within the world. Some may interpret these verses as solely referring to a future resurrection. However, I believe that Paul's message also speaks to the transformative power of Christ in our present lives.

The life of a Christian is one of sacrifice, just as it was for Jesus. By offering our lowly, yes fat, unhealthy, maybe elderly, even sick bodies to the transforming work of Christ, we are promised that Christ will draw us into his body. We become caught up with others, in the work of Christ. Our individual acts of kindness, our struggles for justice, are not isolated events. They are woven together, creating a tapestry of love that transforms the world. We offer our weakness, and Christ transforms it into strength – by binding our feeble effort with the efforts of all the friends of Christ throughout the world. This, ultimately, is a resurrection promise. It is a promise that love will ultimately triumph over hate, that justice will prevail over injustice, that life will overcome death.

We are called to be agents of that transformation, to be living examples of the love of Christ in a world that desperately needs it. We are called to embody the radical inclusivity of Jesus, to welcome the stranger, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to comfort the broken hearted. We are called to be a community of love, a beacon of hope, a testament to the power of the gospel to transform lives and change the world.

So, let’s do it. Let’s follow Paul's exhortation. Let us join together in following the example of Christ, keeping our eyes on those who live as he did. We will not be afraid to challenge the "enemies of Christ" in our world and even in our community, but we will do so with love and compassion. We will remember that even they, like us, are children of God, worthy of redemption. We commit ourselves, however, to live as citizens of heaven, bringing the kingdom of God to earth, one act of love, one act of justice, one act of forgiveness at a time. Let us become the change we wish to see in the world, and in doing so, reflect the glorious image of Christ.