He Is Risen

First draft of sermon for Sabbath, April 15, 2017 at Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

Texts: Isaiah 25:1-9; Luke 24

When I walked outside on Thursday morning, there was color in the sky, a bit of blue decorated with wisps of pink and orange and salmon and peach. But by the time I finished my chores and exercises, and sat on my stool for a time of meditation and prayer, the sky had gone monochrome. Shades of grey. I was disappointed, then I noticed the trees. Below the sky, to the east stands a solid wall of trees. A backdrop of dark, towering Doug firs. In front of the firs stand alders and maples and a few cottonwoods. For months I have noted dull gray of their trunks and branches. Thursday morning, as my eyes dropped from the monochrome sky to this wall of trees, my heart skipped a beat. I almost got up from my stool in excitement. The maples and alders and cottonwoods were not gray. They were green, a light, almost iridescent, green. I imagined I could feel the throb of new life rising in the sap.

It is the magic time of year. The time when even nature itself seems to whisper hope and resurrection.

In the Bible story of Abraham is a wanderer, a pilgrim. God promises that someday he (through his descendants) will possess the entire land of Palestine. But for Abraham, the land is always a foreign country. He is a wanderer, a stateless pilgrim, an undocumented alien.

Decades pass. Abraham's wife, Sarah, dies, and for the first time Abraham owns a piece of his promise. He purchases a field and a cave as a burial place. Now he owns it. It is a dramatic act of faith. This purchase of the Cave of Machpelah from Ephron the Hittite is Abraham's way of saying, yes, I believe the promise. This land will be my country, my people's country. There is a future here, a long future, a bright future.

This confidence in the power and good intentions of God becomes more fully developed in the writings of the prophets, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel. Let's hear again this morning's Old Testament reading:

O LORD, I will honor and praise your name, for you are my God.

You do such wonderful things! . . .

You turn mighty cities into heaps of ruins.

Cities with strong walls are turned to rubble.

Beautiful palaces in distant lands disappear and will never be rebuilt.

This is a celebration of God's power. At this point in history, Israel was a smallish nation. Like Taiwan or the Philippines next door to China or Mexico next door to the United States. They were an independent nation but always at risk of domination or subjugation by their powerful neighbors, Egypt, Babylon, Assyria. They were constantly afraid of being squashed.

But not to worry, the prophet assured them. God was more powerful than Egypt, Babylon, and Assyria combined. Those beautiful palaces in Babylon—gone in an instant if God so decreed. The great cities along the Nile River in Egypt—turned into rubble at the mere whisper of Yahweh.

God was mighty. Stronger than every enemy, every foreign nation. Take heart.

But sometimes the enemies are not across the border. Sometimes the enemy does not speak with an accent and wave a different flag. Sometimes the enemy is here. Sometimes the enemy is our own people, our own system. Even when the oppressor and the victim share the same accents and same passports, the oppressed can count on God, the prophet says.

You, O Lord, are a tower of refuge to the poor,

a tower of refuge to the needy in distress.

You are a refuge from the storm and a shelter from the heat.

For the oppressive acts of ruthless people are like a storm beating against a wall,

or like the relentless heat of the desert. . . .

As the shade of a cloud cools relentless heat, so the boastful songs of ruthless people are stilled.

Because we are a church, because we see ourselves as the people of God, we aim to order our lives in harmony with the principles of God's kingdom.

But even if we learn to cooperate perfectly with God, even if we are able to eliminate every act of injustice and every systematic unfairness, even if we organize help for every poor person, provide adequate help for every person with mental illness, even if we were able to remedy every problem caused by human blindness and immorality, we would still face the dark truth that life is fleeting. Here on earth, love and life are temporary.

Which brings us to the final paragraph of this prophetic message:

In Jerusalem, the LORD of Heaven's Armies will spread a wonderful feast for all the people of the world. It will be a delicious banquet . . .

There he will remove the cloud of gloom, the shroud of death that hangs over the earth.

He will swallow up death forever!

The Sovereign LORD will wipe away all tears. . . .

In that day the people will proclaim, "This is our God!

We trusted in him, and he saved us!

This is the LORD, in whom we trusted.

Let us rejoice in the salvation he brings!"

Hope is a constant theme in the Old Testament. God will vanquish enemies. God will topple oppressors. God will rescue the poor and widows and orphans and immigrants and even eunuchs and residents of Babylon, Egypt, and Philistia. Then there are the few passages that say God will even one day triumph over death.

It is this final triumph that forms the very center of our faith as Christians.

Jesus, the rabbi, teacher, healer, prophet, Messiah. Jesus who had raised people from the dead, was himself dead. Buried in a tomb closed with a solid rock door and an official Roman seal.

Then very early on Sunday morning the women went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared.

They found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. So they went in, but they didn't find the body of the Lord Jesus.

As they stood there puzzled, two men suddenly appeared to them, clothed in dazzling robes.

The women were terrified and bowed with their faces to the ground. Then the men asked, "Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive?

He isn't here! He is risen!

The women--Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and several others--rushed back from the tomb to tell the disciples what had happened.

But the story sounded like nonsense to the men, so they didn't believe it.

That same day two of Jesus' followers were walking to the village of Emmaus, seven miles from Jerusalem. As they walked along they were talking about everything that had happened. Jesus himself suddenly came and began walking with them. But God kept them from recognizing him.

He asked them, "What are you discussing so intently as you walk along?" They stopped short, sadness written across their faces.

Then one of them, Cleopas, replied, "You must be the only person in Jerusalem who hasn't heard about all the things that have happened there the last few days."

"What things?" Jesus asked.

"The things that happened to Jesus, the man from Nazareth," they said. "He was a prophet who did powerful miracles, and he was a mighty teacher in the eyes of God and all the people. But our leading priests and other religious leaders handed him over to be condemned to death, and they crucified him.

We had hoped he was the Messiah who had come to rescue Israel. This all happened three days ago.

"Then some women from our group of his followers were at his tomb early this morning, and they came back with an amazing report. They said his body was missing, and they had seen angels who told them Jesus is alive! Some of our men ran out to see, and sure enough, his body was gone, just as the women had said."

Then Jesus said to them, "You foolish people! You find it so hard to believe all that the prophets wrote in the Scriptures. Wasn't it clearly predicted that the Messiah would have to suffer all these things before entering his glory?" Then Jesus took them through the writings of Moses and all the prophets, explaining from all the Scriptures the things concerning himself.

By this time they were nearing Emmaus and the end of their journey. Jesus acted as if he were going on, but they begged him, "Stay the night with us, since it is getting late." So he went home with them.

As they sat down to eat, he took the bread and blessed it. Then he broke it and gave it to them.

Suddenly, their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And at that moment he disappeared!

They said to each other, "Didn't our hearts burn within us as he talked with us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us?"

And within the hour they were on their way back to Jerusalem. There they found the eleven disciples and the others who had gathered with them. The two from Emmaus told their story of how Jesus had appeared to them as they were walking along the road, and how they had recognized him as he was breaking the bread. And just as they were telling about it, Jesus himself was suddenly standing there among them. "Peace be with you," he said.

But the whole group was startled and frightened, thinking they were seeing a ghost!

"Why are you frightened?" he asked. "Why are your hearts filled with doubt?

Look at my hands. Look at my feet. You can see that it's really me. Touch me and make sure that I am not a ghost, because ghosts don't have bodies, as you see that I do."

As he spoke, he showed them his hands and his feet.

Still they stood there in disbelief, filled with joy and wonder. Then he asked them, "Do you have anything here to eat?"

They gave him a piece of broiled fish,

and he ate it as they watched.

Then he said, "When I was with you before, I told you that everything written about me in the law of Moses and the prophets and in the Psalms must be fulfilled."

Then he opened their minds to understand the Scriptures.

And he said, "Yes, it was written long ago that the Messiah would suffer and die and rise from the dead on the third day.

Beneath the dark clouds of war and atrocities, beneath the dark clouds of illness and disability, beneath the cacophony and clamor that demands our attention, we focus our eyes on the vivid green radiance of the story of Jesus and the divine promise.

Death will.

We will rise.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

Lifting the Shroud

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church
Sabbath, March 26, 2016


It was a very dark day. The best man the world had ever known was dead. Not just dead, killed. And not killed by just some random lunatic, executed. Put to death by the formal vote of the supreme court of the land, a judgment ratified by the chief executive.

How could a people go so wrong? It had happened before. It would happen again. But this time seemed like the worst.

For three and a half years Jesus had toured Palestine, enthralling crowds with his preaching, healing every kind of malady, even raising the dead. It was one of the most magic moments in human history.

But he rebuked the arrogance of the religious and moneyed elites. He echoed the words of the ancient prophets, insisting that those with privilege—the privileges of money, political power, religious and social status—those with privilege were charged by God to use their advantages for the benefit of others.

Maybe the privileged could have ignored his rebukes if he had been less popular. They could have dismissed Jesus as a harmless, crazy dreamer. But the crowds, the thousands of people who instantly gathered every time Jesus stopped moving, the masses who adored Jesus made him dangerous. At least in the minds of the rich and powerful. They were sure Jesus would use his power over the masses to stir a revolution to benefit his friends. After all, that's how the elite had been using their power for centuries. They could not imagine Jesus was any different from them.

So they had him killed. Accused him of thinking like they did. Framed him for ideas he did not have. Convicted him of making the kind of plots they would have made if they had possessed his power. And they killed him.

And it was dark.

For Jesus' friends--the people who had been enthralled by his preaching, the people had begun to imagine there was another path besides the will to power--the death of Jesus was the death of hope. If Jesus couldn't change things, change wasn't possible. If Jesus couldn't advance the cause of righteousness, maybe righteousness itself was a mere fantasy.

It was a very dark day.

Jesus was crucified. Executed.

Ordinarily, when a person was crucified, their bodies were not buried. If they were evil enough to deserve crucifixion, they were too evil for the dignity of burial. Their bodies were thrown onto a garbage heap outside of town.

But Jesus had friends and admirers even among the powerful people. A few devout, wealthy people had heard the glory in Jesus' preaching. They shared his vision of a world where the lowly were lifted, a world where wealth circulated widely and generously, and righteousness was normal.

One of these righteous, good people was a man named Joseph. He went to the governor and asked for the body of Jesus. The governor was used to saying yes to wealthy, well-connected people, so he said yes to Joseph, and Joseph buried Jesus in a new tomb Joseph had just completed constructing.

The tomb was a room carved into a limestone outcrop in the neighborhood of Jerusalem. Joseph, with the help of servants or some of Jesus' disciples—the Gospel doesn't tell us—wrapped Jesus body in a burial shroud along with a huge amount of spices and herbs traditionally used for burials there. Then just at sundown, they closed the tomb by rolling a huge stone over the entrance.

Then they went home for the worst Sabbath of their lives.

Hope died. They were left with numbness and pain. Blackness. Screaming silence.

Death collides with love. When we love someone, there is never enough time. No matter how long our time together, we are never ready to say, “That's enough.” Thousands of people loved Jesus. His execution blighted their souls. His death created an aching, withering emptiness.

But it was even worse than that. Because Jesus was also their hope. How do we live without hope?

Maybe they didn't eat supper Friday night. Or if they ate, maybe it was merely nibbling, playing with food because it was in front of them, but they had no appetite. Sabbath morning, they had a hard time getting out of bed. Why bother? What was there to get up for. What was there to live for? The world was not getting better. The best and brightest hope for humanity had just been killed, executed.

The sun rose. But it didn't make things brighter. Maybe they didn't eat much for breakfast. Maybe not much for lunch. It was hard to breathe. Hard to be awake and impossible to sleep. That was Sabbath. The bleakest Sabbath ever. The most miserable day in the universe.

Saturday night, the ladies talked. The women who had traveled from Galilee to Jerusalem with Jesus. The death had been so sudden, the reversal from the enthusiasm of the week so violent they had not been able to respond appropriately.

Joseph had buried Jesus was traditional spices—a ton of them. But the women had not had time to do anything. They had failed to do the necessary things for their own goodbye. So Saturday night they made their own plans to honor Jesus with the proper attentions a dead loved one deserved.

Sunday at first light they were headed to the tomb.

Arriving, something was wrong! Were they at the right place?

The grave was open. The stone was rolled back from the entrance.  They stooped and went inside. Empty!

While they were jabbering to each other, wondering what on earth could have happened, a couple of men suddenly appeared. Angels.

The women were terrified and bowed with their faces to the ground. Then the men asked, "Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive? He isn't here! He is risen from the dead! Remember what he told you back in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be betrayed into the hands of sinful men and be crucified, and that he would rise again on the third day."

Right! He had said this. He had said this very thing. Why didn't they think of it before?  He's not in the tomb. He must be resurrected! They raced off to tell the guys.

The men, the famous disciples whose names we know—Peter, James and John, Andrew and Matthew—the guys didn't believe the women. What do you mean the grave is empty? How could it possibly be that he is risen?

The women told them again what they had seen and what the men in shining clothes had said. The women reminded the men of the words Jesus himself had spoken. But it was too much. The guys couldn't believe it.

But neither could they deny it. Jesus had said something about dying and rising. It hadn't made sense. It still didn't make sense. But the words were there, floating at the edge of their memories. So Peter and John raced off the check it out. An hour and a half later they were back. They had seen no men in shining clothes. But they had seen the tomb. They had gone inside. It was empty. Jesus was gone.

The rest of the day passed in confusion. Jesus had died. They had seen it. Love had been crushed. Hope had been killed. The pictures were seared into their minds. And the tomb was empty. The women had seen men in shining clothes and heard them announce that Jesus was risen. They gradually remembered together words Jesus had spoken, words that had made no sense, and so had made no impression. He was going to be killed. He was going to rise. He had said those things, but they hadn't heard them because they couldn't make sense of them. Not then.

But now, the tomb was empty.

Well after sundown, there was pounding on the door. They looked at each other. Who? What now? Someone peaked through the crack, or called through the door, “Who is it?”

It was friends. They opened the door and two friends from a hamlet outside Jerusalem practically jumped through the door shouting.

“We have seen him. We have seen him.” The story tumbled out.

They had been walking home from Jerusalem that afternoon.

Some stranger joined them. He seemed friendly enough. They thought nothing of it. He asked about the latest news. He seemed utterly clueless, like some redneck from Galilee—excuse me Peter. From his questions it appeared he had heard nothing about Jesus, nothing about the triumphal ride last Sunday, nothing about Jesus chasing out the money changers and merchants, nothing about the crucifixion. Nothing.

“So we told him everything. Then he explained everything. He seemed like a brilliant scholar. He ran through dozens of prophecies, basically saying that the whole thing had been planned. It had all been prophesied.

“By the time we got to our place in Emmaeus it was getting dark, so naturally we invited him to join us for supper and stay the night.

“We put some bread and wine on the table and sat down to eat. He picked up the bread and said the blessing. And BOOM! It was him! How many times have we watched him bless the bread? How could we have missed it? It was him. It was his voice. It was his hands. It was him. He is alive!”

“So where is he? Everyone shouted at once.”

“We don't know. The instant we recognized him and started from our chairs, he disappeared. Poof! Just like that! But we saw him. We heard him. We felt him. He is alive!”

And for two thousand years this has been the song of the church. He is risen. He is alive.

Some of us have heard his voice, have felt his presence. Others like the disciples in that upper room that evening have only the testimony of our friends.

Still, we come together in worship and with one voice shout against the darkness of death, He is risen.

Some of us have had our children are stolen from us. Still we sing, “He is risen. Death will one day die.”

We have seen our hopes crushed. We have felt the insuperable weight of despair. Still we come together and declare, morning is coming. Righteousness, justice, God and love will triumph. And we, too, will be victors. Because . . . He is risen.

One Wednesday I had lunch with three college students. At one point, one of them asked me, “Do you think Christians make too much of heaven? Do you think Christians use talk about heaven as a substitute for actually doing something to make the world better?”

The question put a long pause in our conversation. What to say?

Finally, I said, “For people like you and me whose lives still include all kinds of opportunities to choose, to decide, to change things, to make things better, heaven can be a lazy-making idea. If we tell ourselves, God's going to fix things so I don't need to bother. Heaven can be a bad idea.

But if heaven is the ideal that shapes our choices and our drives, we cannot give it too much attention.

And some time, you will reach places in life where all of your strength and beauty and intelligence and luck and privilege stand helpless in the face if unalterable grief and injustice. And then you will need heaven.

And even if you don't personally reach that impasse, most people in the world live there every day. They are not sitting around in cafes wrestling with the questions, “What career should I pursue? What city shall I live in? How will I spend my money? What fund should I invest my retirement funds in?

For most people, the promise of justice and even life itself lives only in the reality of heaven. So let's be careful—we who live in privilege and comfort, we who have health and money and youth—let's be careful not to make light of the truth that makes life worth living for millions who know nothing of our privilege. If not for ourselves, then at least for our brothers and sisters who live in difficult places let's keep alive the glorious, shining faith: He is risen. He is alive. He will save us.

He Is Risen

Sermon manuscript for Sabbath, April 4, 2015

at Green Lake Church, Seattle.

Texts:  Isaiah 11:1-9, Luke 23:50-24:11

Thursday morning, before dawn, I was at my usual spot on the west side of Green Lake watching for the dawn. The sky dark because the sun was still below the horizon. Further darkening the gloom were thick clouds and a pouring rain. Not the standard Seattle mist and drizzle. This was real rain. Great drops dimpling the surface of the lake in front of me. I could feel water running down my rain pants into my shoes. I was tempted to bail, get back on my bicycle and finish my morning prayers in the warm comfort of my office. But I knew I was going to preach today about waiting and hope, so I had to stick it out.

One of the many privileges I enjoy as a pastor is being paid to watch for the dawn. Every morning you pay me to take my seat in the darkness and watch the sunrise. Some mornings, all that happens is the black-gray sky becomes a little less dark. Night time becomes day time, sort of. Thursday, sitting there in the rain under a lead-gray sky, I wondered, will the sun really rise? Will it break through?

I rehearsed the words of blessing: Grace and peace. I prayed grace and peace for the people who came to my mind, friends dealing with cancer, job loss, loneliness, unfulfilled desires for their children, grief. I recalled people I met at Aurora Commons facing homelessness because their Taco Bell wages don't equal rent. People dealing with various forms of mental illness.

I sat in the darkness with my friends and God, praying grace and peace.

Then it happened. The sun pierced the clouds. Spangles of light rippled across the lake. Blue sky spread. The darkness was gone.

I pulled out my phone and took a few pictures, climbed on my bike and headed into my day.

It's my job to watch for the dawn.

Yes, darkness happens. Sometimes, here in the Northwest, the gloom is so oppressive that there is a clinical term for its effect: Seasonal affective disorder. But the light is coming.

Most people are too cumbered with obligations to give their full attention to the sunrise. Getting the kids ready for school, getting yourself to the office on time, those are inescapable duties. Perhaps by the time the sun wakes up, you're already behind the pharmacy counter at the back of Safeway or deep in a Boeing plant miles from the nearest window. And even if there were a window nearby, you are not paid to gaze out the window. So, every morning, I watch and bear witness to the light.

In a larger sense, this is the calling of the church. We watch for the dawning of the light. We are called to be celebrants of the light. Our annual celebrations of Christmas and Easter are celebrations of the light.

Yes, darkness happens. There is drought in California and ISIS in the Middle East. Our friends are dealing with cancer and we are mourning the loss of loved ones. So, we come to church and remind ourselves and the world: He is risen. The last word is not death but resurrection. Not defeat but the triumph of goodness.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

The heart of our religion is not a tomb. It is not a crucifix or the crucifixion. Those things are reminders that good life, even the best life, includes heart break and disappointment, injustice and failure. Darkness happens. Evil happens. Murders and mayhem, war and disaster wreak havoc. But the final word of our faith, the ultimate word, is resurrection. New life.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

In the Gospel of Luke we read that late Friday after Jesus had died, a rich man named Joseph went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.

Ordinarily, the bodies of people who were condemned to crucifixion were discarded in the garbage dump. But Joseph requested the Roman governor to allow him to provide a proper burial for Jesus. If we were watching the movie, we would feel the tension accompanying the request. We would be hoping with Joseph that Pilate would grant the request. We would have already watched Pilate cave in to the demands of the mob and condemn Jesus to death even though he knew Jesus' accusers were lying through their teeth.

Knowing that Pilate is a weak man and maybe an evil man, we expect him to say no. But we also see Joseph's obvious status. Joseph is used to hearing yes.

So how is it going to play out? Yes or no? Is Pilate going to bend to the blood thirst of the high priest or the goodness and political clout of Joseph. Will Pilate grant Joseph Jesus' body?

Joseph wins. Pilate says yes.

A large group of women was present at the cross. They watched men wrap Jesus in a burial shroud provided by Joseph. They followed the men as they carried Jesus to the tomb. They saw Jesus placed in the new tomb, a room carved into a limestone outcrop. Then, since it was about sundown, they headed home.

The darkness was complete. Goodness had been smashed. Evil had triumphed.

Early Sunday morning the women headed back to the tomb. One way we cope with death is to say a proper farewell. Grief is the inescapable cost of love, and expressing our grief is part of continuing to love the one who is gone. The women were heartbroken at Jesus' death. Unlike the men who were still hiding in their upper room worried about whether they would be next in line to be arrested, the woman cared only about saying a proper farewell.

Part of Jewish custom was to pack the body with spices. There had been no time to accomplish this on Friday, so at first light on Sunday, the women headed out with their spices to show final honor to the man who had been their hero.

When they arrived at the tomb, to their astonishment, the tomb was open. The great stone which had closed the entry was rolled to the side.

Cautiously, they peeked inside. Nothing. They stepped inside for a closer look. No, Jesus was not there. They clustered together, jabbering, questioning each other, wondering, when suddenly two men in dazzling garments were standing there with them. Angels or gods? Magicians?

Startled, terrified, the women fell on their faces to pay obeisance to these supernatural beings.

Then the men spoke. “Why are you looking for Jesus here?” they asked. “This is a cemetery.”

Which reveals a certain divine sense of humor. Why were the women looking for Jesus HERE? Because this is where they last saw him. They had watched Joseph and the other men place Jesus in this very tomb late Friday afternoon. So, of course, they looked for him here.

“Why are you looking for the living among the dead?” the angels asked. Again, a bit of divine humor until we realize it's a rhetorical question. Then just in case the women did not understand, the angel said, “He is not here. He is risen.

“Don't you remember?” the angel continued. “Remember what he told you while he was still up north in Galilee? Remember how he said he was going to be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise again. Don't you remember?”

As the reality of the empty tomb and the angel's words sank in, the women did remember. They jumped to their feet jabbering, laughing, hugging each other. “He's not dead. He's alive! Let's go tell the guys.”

They ran back to the city, to the room where Peter and John and the other guys were hanging out.

“Jesus is alive!” the women shouted. “We were at the tomb. It's open and empty. We saw angels. They told us Jesus is alive. Don't you remember what he said when we were still in Galilee? That he was going to be arrested and crucified and would rise again on the third day? Don't you remember?”

The men did not remember. They did not believe. Though I will give them this: Peter and John did not dismiss what the women said. It was unbelievable, of course. Who ever heard of the dead rising from the grave? Still, Peter and John raced off for the tomb to check it out. That's something.

It turned out the women were correct. The tomb was empty. Jesus was gone. And not just gone. Jesus was risen. The last word was not crucifixion. The last word was not burial. The final word was not grief but celebration. He's alive.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

This is heart of our religion. God's last word is resurrection. God's loudest word is resurrection.

It's easy to obsess over the darkness. When you're sitting in the dark and the rain is pouring down, dawn seems impossible or at least improbably remote.

Our calling as devotees of Jesus is to keep watching for the dawn. Don't study the darkness. Let's not become experts in human failure. Let's make sure our greatest expertise is the cultivation of hope. Let's master the skills of healing and creating, making and building, soothing and feeding. That's the call of the resurrection.

One of the deepest truths that flow from the resurrection, maybe the most challenging of all the teachings of Jesus, is this: God's final word is not death, but resurrection, restoration, reconciliation, mending the world, making things new.

When we become aware of human evil, human brokenness, human failure, where does our imagination take us? Do we imagine that the remedy is death.

When we hear of a murder, we want someone killed. We hear about the chaos, heart-break, injustice, cruelty in Syria, we are tempted to imagine the wise response is bombs and drones and missiles and Special Forces. Some of us are tempted to imagine the remedy for deadly ideologies is more death—death administered by the United States instead of by President Assad or ISIS or one of the dozens of local militias? It's tempting to imagine that killing is the path to peace.

What is God's imagination in response to the deadly chaos of the Middle East? Resurrection. New life. People healed and made righteous. God does not dream of obliterating the people in the Middle East. God dreams of healing.

As devotees of Jesus we are called back again and again to the resurrection. We are invited to meditate on God's response to deadliness and death—resurrection.

Let me apply this closer home. Have you ever hurt someone else? Have you blundered in ways that left you crippled with guilt and shame? Do you find yourself wondering if God wishes you would go away? Do think God's response to your failure is eradication? Annihilation? Do you imagine God is as scornful of your failure as you are or your ex-wife is or you children are or your parents are?

Please hear the message of the resurrection: God's response to human failure—your failure, your parents' failure, your spouse's failure—God's response to failure, no matter how grievous, is resurrection.

To echo the words of our OT reading, when God looks at the problem of lions eating lambs, his remedy is the transformation of lions, not a program of eradication. When God sees the problem of cobras biting children, God does not get rid of the snakes, he transforms them into friends of children. When God sees your capacity for doing harm, when God reviews your actual track record of doing harm, God does not imagine a future without you. God imagines a future where you are restored to the full glory God intended in creation. God dreams of resurrection for you.

This is the message of the Gospel of Luke: He is risen. And with him, we are risen.

He is risen.

He is risen, indeed.