Third Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins
The Collect
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in
the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him
in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen
The Gospel: John 21:1-19
Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing…This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead…Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me
In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all. Amen.
Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this 3rd Sunday of Easter! I’m so glad you are joining us today. In this chapter of our lives at Holy Family, I find myself empathizing with the Disciples in ways perhaps new for me. Maybe you do so as well. We know they have been scared, and in the reading for today, they don’t recognize Jesus at first when he appears. Begging the question, when we are in a season of uncertainty and transition, can we recognize Christ in the face of the other, our sisters and brothers, and can we remain relatively non-anxious enough to lead with wisdom, and resilience, even when we may disagree with one another? And, let’s remember we have only recently emerged from an unprecedented time of social distancing and quarantine, and we’ve all been on a post-pandemic journey of sorts. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago, we had our own mini version of a pandemic here at Holy Family and I am so very proud of how we responded. I’m so glad to have been on this journey with you all, and I am grateful for those serving on our vestry and search committees. I am aware that my time among you is ending. About this time last year, I was walking out to the car with Andy Edwards after services. Now, Andy and Melinda were here many years ago, back when I was a Postulant at Holy Family, over 20 years ago, and he said “Well, your priesthood has come full circle from here to the Cathedral, and now back again.” And so it has. My first thought was one of deep gratitude for this parish, and for all it has meant to me and my family. Truth told we are, many of us, in a new role at Holy Family, and I am only one among many here asked to step up in this season. As our beloved Katharine Armentrout said so well last year, lay leadership will be—for many reasons, increasingly important in the coming chapter. We’re not alone in this. As I said many times over the past year, in many contexts of our denomination, and our sister denominations in mainline Protestantism, a new mission statement in “Lay Led…Clergy Supported”. My friend and running buddy, the Bishop of New Hampshire, has told me that 80% of their parishes can no longer afford a full-time priest. We will each have to discover in ourselves opportunities for leadership, and this may mean facing fears, uncertainty, and leaving our comfort zone to be an integral part of the Body of Christ. We each have an opportunity to grow in new ways. When I decided to retire from full time teaching and focus on clinical practice, and Vicky and I made the decision to move to Jasper, I did not know what lay ahead, and I certainly did not anticipate becoming the interim here. Like the disciples in the Gospel for today, we are each walking, talking with one another about what has happened, finding some meaning in what we’ve been through, and trusting that God is listening to us and bearing witness to our concerns and fears. Carl Jung once said that the soul rejoices in saying out loud what we feel inside, just as our Psalms of both joy and lament teach us to do, even when it is hard to do so. As the disciples experienced in this Gospel, Jesus is available to hear both, and we are called to do likewise.
Jesus invited the disciples tell about their anxieties and pains; he let them grieve and mourn. Jesus listened to them, as they poured out their fear, uncertainty, sadness and grief. Jesus patiently guided the disciples “from hopelessness and sadness to celebration, to hope, to relationship restored and renewed; in short, to resurrection.” I suspect the disciples felt much the same as we do now, a kind of “not knowing” with the sense of dislocation that sometime attends it. They were fishing for literal fish, yes, but also for answers about what would happen after the resurrection.
The author Rachel Naomi Remen has suggested that “The way we deal with loss shapes our capacity to be present to life more than anything else,” she says. And when we tell each other stories of hope and resilience, they tell us about who we are, what is possible for us, what and who we might call upon. They also remind us that we’re not alone with whatever faces us and that there are resources available to us. But we must each be committed to hope, compassion, and grace. As Goethe said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth…the moment one definitely commits oneself, the Providence moves too.” The Disciples believe Jesus to be a stranger, and their eyes were opened in the breaking of the bread, and in the boat and on the shore of Tiberius. In this text and related passages, this is a common theme. What does it mean to really see? How often do we miss what is right in front of us and how often do we miss the face of Christ in the stranger whom we encounter on the road? In the Gospel story for today we have a signpost of sort through uncertainty in this sea of transition at Holy Family. Indeed, this Gospel text was read at my own ordination at the Cathedral of St. Philip many years ago and, truth told, I was scared when I heard these words: “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.”
Last summer a friend and I were hiking and trail running high in the mountains of Northern Colorado, and at certain points above the tree line where the trails can become diffuse, cairns, towers of rock guiding the way, were so very helpful. “Inuksuk”—or little people—as the Inuit tribes call these signposts, can be like lighthouses on a distant shore, guiding us along. Jesus is just such a guide in the Gospel for today, and as such he helps the disciples move from grief and loss and despair to hope, and to compassion.
A year ago, in this parish hall, our consultant gave us a list of things we must do together as we seek our new rector—and this list included coming to terms with our history; acknowledging the past; being honest about the DNA in that past… and dealing with both grief—letting go—and moving forward together…holding on; beginning to discover a new identity; allowing for and empowering new leaders among us; strengthening relationships and enriching hospitality; asking ourselves where we have been, and where we are going, and what kind of leadership is needed in this new chapter…and we are called to love one another with grace, and compassion. And with love. These goals continue to be salient. And leadership requires transparency, facing our fears and old narratives with courage, and having agency amid uncertainty. If we trust God, and if we do not give in to fear or lethargy which keep us stuck in old patterns, we may discover who, and whose we are.
In the spring of 1977, I lamented the end of my tenure as a collegiate 400-meter runner and thus, my running career. Or so I thought. Mark, a wonderful distance runner at Rhodes, would not hear about it. “We are running Peachtree together, and I will be your coach,” he said. “In your dreams,” I responded. To which he said, “Exactly…and my dreams are about to become reality.” And so, they did. Mark trained with me, and together we ran Peachtree in 1977, starting at the old Sears building in Buckhead, and finishing downtown in the fountains at Central City (now Woodruff) Park. We continued to run Peachtree each year, and Mark helped me train for the first of my 12 marathons, the most recent of which was on the Biltmore Trails in Asheville. In February of 1992, a malignant lymph node was removed from under Mark’s left arm. In April of that year, having qualified in Memphis the December before with a 2:38:00 marathon, Mark ran his final Boston Marathon. He had been waiting faithfully at the finish line for an hour when I finally arrived on Boylston Street in Copley Square. My friend had developed melanoma, and despite entering an aggressive treatment protocol at the National Institutes of Health, by late December of 1992, just before New Year’s, he died in his beloved Memphis. Calvary Episcopal Church was filled for his funeral, including runners from all over the south. He was a wonderful scholar athlete, who lost no intensity in his transition from gridiron running back to harrier, a history we shared. Mark was a courageous, beautiful, and fiercely competitive runner. And he was my dear friend. In early December of 1992, in a final conversation at one of our favorite places, Jagger’s Pizza in Emory Village, Mark asked me to keep running Peachtree for both of us. And so, I have. God willing, this year will be my 49th consecutive Peachtree Road Race. I run mostly trail races these days, and delight in running with my friends, and with my sons. Each run is a new adventure in what the wonderful poet Mary Oliver referred to as “this one wild and precious life.” Donald Winnicott, the British psychoanalyst, and pediatrician, believed that imagination and passion contribute to a sense of aliveness—both mental and physical. “O God,” he once wrote, “my prayer is that I will be fully alive when I die.” For me, and for many whom I love, running is one way of being fully alive. As an Episcopal priest, professor, and pastoral counselor, it is my deep hope that we each find ways to flourish in this way, as I believe God intended. My friend said to me “Bill, I have had so much love.” I said “Yes, there are many who love you, and I am among them.” “That may be, “he replied, “but what I mean is that there are so many whom I have loved. I have so much gratitude for the love God has enabled me to give away.” Dear ones, we are given by God the freedom to love—and this requires release from any fears and the bondage of unnamed grief and old narratives that would keep us in bondage to fear, and the need to be in control amid uncertainty, and prevent us from leading with love. It requires the peace of God, breathed on the disciples and each of us. We are rightly suspicious when we are called only to joy. Yes, and even amidst our struggle with various forms of loss and uncertainty, we can find life-giving possibilities, in conversation with each other, widening the circle of care, and guided by love. And remember, as Jesus taught us, that wholeness includes all our wounds, just as it included all his. It includes all our vulnerabilities and fears, including fears of repeating the past. This is the way we connect to one another. Our shared humanity allows us to be available to one another with transparency and true courage. In sharing his wounds, and in the breaking of the bread, Jesus was known to the disciples, and to us. This led to abundance, rather than scarcity. Let’s go and do likewise no matter what the future may bring. Amen.