He showed them his hands

I didn’t hear anything about on the news by way of commemoration, but 142 years ago yesterday, our nation experienced its first presidential assassination. For three-quarters of its first century, the American republic never had to face the shock and deal with the grief of an assassination, but that all ended on April 14, 1865. That was the day an actor named John Wilkes Booth shot Abraham Lincoln at the Fords Theater in Washington DC. Since that assassination, other presidents have been added to that list, others also have survived attempts on their life.

I think it ironic that in the years leading up to 1865, when passions and emotions ran high on issues like slavery and states rights, at a time when politicians were known to settle arguments with derringers and a gentleman’s duel, the presidency was undoubtedly less risky then than in our day. Maybe its just one of the contradictions of our time that while on many levels we have made life easier and eliminated many dangers, we’ve also made the violent ending of life easier too: Hitler’s final solution; the killing fields of Cambodia; the Darfur region of Sudan; suicide bombers, the consistency with which our country leads the world in deaths caused by handguns.

Contradictions and ironies are also much a part of the story before us this morning from John’s gospel. The time is Sunday evening, the evening of Easter. The day the tomb in which Jesus was buried was found empty. The day the women were told by mysterious messengers – angels perhaps – that Jesus had risen. The day was Easter and hours now have past since hearing the news.

And what were the disciples doing? How were they occupying their time on that Easter evening. Were they planning a publicity campaign for Jesus their resurrected leader? Were they in the midst of a let’s-conquer-the-world strategy session? Were they casting lots and drawing straws to determine who would hold seats of power in Jesus’ new resurrection cabinet?

They were doing none of that. No high fives. No pats on the back. No fists in the air. They gathered in that place, maybe it was the same upper room of Maundy Thursday, to protect themselves and to hide themselves. They huddled behind doors that were not merely shut and closed, but locked and secured like a shelter prepared for an oncoming assault.

The mood was a fearful one. Fear hung in the air. These disciple were afraid. Of what? Of whom? Afraid of the Jews, says John. Maybe that was a direct way of saying they were afraid of public opinion. Afraid that someone, some powerful figure, someone with influence or a mob led search might sniff them out like bloodhounds on the trail of a prison escapee. Maybe they were afraid of being accused of stealing a corpse, of robbing a grave.

Here, in this room behind closed doors, behind shut doors, behind locked doors, behind bolted doors, with the window shades pulled, and the candles blown out, and a chair shoved under the doorknob, here is the First Congregational Church of Jerusalem.What an inauspicious beginning. Open up a MacDonalds or a Subway franchise and you’re bound to have more celebration than this hapless gathering on that first Easter evening.

Maybe what they most feared was meeting this Jesus again. The one they denied. The one they deserted. The one they left to die alone, hanging between heaven and earth. It’s tough to face the ones you let down. Tough to see again those you’ve disappointed. Tough to make amends when you’re not sure how the other will respond.

Well, they didn’t have to wait long. If they thought they could hide, they were mistaken. John, who is the only gospel writer to tell this story, says that Jesus came and stood among them.” No door was opened. No knob was turned. No bolt was slid. Jesus just came and stood among them. The Greek word which we translate as “stood” is best understood as “taking a stand” in their midst. The term was used for someone who stood firm, who fixed oneself in one’s place. What an awesome image. Jesus doesn’t just show up and say, “Howdy, boys. Nice to see you again.” Rather, he shows up and literally takes his stand among them. There’s something affirming and consoling about that. Even in an upper room prison, the presence of the living Christ fills the room.

I have colleague in ministry who serves a church in New Jersey, and she loves to tell the story of her grandfather, Henry Veenschoten (I believe he’s Dutch!) Mr. Veenschoten was a missionary in China for twenty-four years when, following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, he was arrested and sent to a camp in Shanghai. Malnourished and mistreated, he survived only because he worked in the kitchen and could eat the vegetable peelings and other scraps. Though immensely lonely, he was grateful that his wife and family had gone back to America earlier and were safe. Henry Veenschoten took great comfort each day in experiencing the living presence of Christ who stood with him. Henry would often say, “Iron bars do not a prison make.”

A good number of East Church folks this past week have experienced the living presence of Christ, have known first-hand, even though they might not be able to put it into words, how Christ was able to stand in their midst, with them and among them.

I heard the living presence of Christ this past week in the strong voice of R.T. Brown who said he was feeling better, getting stronger. And to think I went down to Florida with burial spices.

I saw the living presence of Christ in a Blodgett nurse name Cathy, who was able to make Vern Anema laugh when there seemed nothing at all about which to be hopeful.

I witness the living presence of Christ whenever I walk into a hospital room, for there amidst high tech machinery and among the spaghetti strings of tubing I see the one called Jesus, who says to patients and loved ones in all their anxieties and fears, “Peace . . . Peace be with you. Let me show you my hands. Let me show you my side. Touch my wounds. Behold my scars. See and know that death is not the final word. Know that iron bars and a rock-sealed grave do not a prison make.” Maybe it is at such times when we catch ourselves saying with Thomas, “My God, this is for real!”

I should like to leave you gnawing on a quote from the great preacher Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick. The late Dr. Fosdick who for many years occupied the pulpit at Riverside Church in NYC, said this:

Better to believe in no God than to believe in a cruel God, a tribal God, a sectarian God. Belief in God is one of the most dangerous beliefs a [person] can cherish. If the God [people] believe in is small and mean, the more intensely [they hold their belief and cultivate]it the smaller and meaner [they] will be. . . It behooves us to take care what kind of God we believe in. Some of the people who do not believe in God at all are more merciful, truth-loving, and just than are those who do.

I believe in God. I believe in the living presence of the one called Jesus the Christ. I am amazed how often I see him in you. I also believe this God has taken upon God’s self the wounds of our world and the hurts of our lives all the way to the grave and back. Nothing, then, we carry with us and nothing that harms us can ever separate us from such depths of love.