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One spring night a few years ago, the local evening news in New York City explained an odd closure that many in Central Park had experienced that day. A stray coyote, of all things, had wandered into the northern edge of the park. This coyote then began a game of hide-and-seek with park rangers. No one knew where he had come from, or how, or exactly when. He was, quite mysteriously, just there. And the drama unfolded over the next several days as officials of various kinds became the hunters, and New Yorkers cheered on the elusive coyote, even naming him: Hal. The city watched, some cheering crafty Hal as he gave would-be captors the slip. But he finally succumbed to capture, and lives went back to normal. The park was fully reopened. All was well. Hal was taken to an animal shelter to prepare him for his return to the wild. But before he could be released, as mysteriously as he had appeared, he died. Alas.

Still, for a while, Hal and his story shaped our imaginations. How could he be there? In a place like Central Park, surrounded by streets full of taxis, buses, cars and trucks? How could it be? How could this possibly be?

Such questions oddly brought to my mind the gospel lesson we heard read again this morning. In the gospel lesson, Jesus, the crucified rabbi, is suddenly in a locked room with the mystified, terrified disciples. And he is no longer just the crucified rabbi. He has become the risen Lord. Their reaction, understandably, is terror. So his word is “Peace.” Repeatedly he says to them, “Peace be with you.” They can hardly imagine such a thing; nor might they imagine anything better.

Not often perhaps, but occasionally, in extraordinary circumstances, God reaches into our world with just such a surprise. Coyote Hal’s appearance was not a miracle of such import as the resurrection. But it was a reminder of God’s quirky character, a sense of humor, perhaps. God has this odd habit of shaking up our world. Hal’s appearance in NYC in 2006 was, for me, a pre-Easter reminder of an Easter truth. The risen Christ is as mysterious and elusive as Hal, the elusive coyote. The Risen Christ brings us out of routine lives, so that we might awaken to a new life no less real than that given to Jesus on that first Easter day.

You may recall having heard this gospel lesson before. Actually, we get the chance to hear it every year on this Sunday after Easter. Maybe you call this the “doubting Thomas” story, and that’s understandable. This story IS about Thomas, whom we tend to love partly because he gives voice to our own doubts. But the story is richer and deeper, and speaks about much more than the disciple Thomas or his doubts (and our doubts). This lesson is multi-layered, as so many of John’s stories tend to be. It is about faith, as well as doubt. It is about fear, and the peace Christ gives in the midst of our fear. It is about the breath, the life, so we know that as Jesus breathes into the disciples, they receive new life. And, as he breathes, he gives them the Holy Spirit, so it is nothing less than John’s version of Pentecost.

As rich as this story is on so many levels, for our purposes today, I see John’s resurrection account as a message sent to all of us. It’s given to us, I think, to remind us that ours is the job of telling the story of Jesus to those who don’t know of His new life. John has his reasons for telling us his stories, he says here at the end. Did you hear him speaking to you? Listen again: “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” This gospel lesson, you see, is really about us, not Thomas.

Maybe you’ve never thought of it before, but this lesson IS about us. Actually, I’m glad that John gives us this story, and the church lets us hear it every year on this “Low Sunday.” For this is the Sunday when we gather as “just” family. All the other relatives showed up last week, but today it’s just us. Without all the extra “hoopla” that surrounds the Easter message, we get a chance to think about what it means to us. Just us.

The message to the “family” is a simple one: it is, quite simply, that each new chapter of life is a gift from a loving God. God has in store for us the very life that Jesus experienced and offered to those first disciples. God has for us the gift of Easter. My experience of the resurrection is there at the very moment when, like those disciples huddled behind a locked door, I am most afraid.

In my own life, I see John’s story as a reminder that Jesus stands beside us, even when our fears have locked all the doors from the inside. And I know that John’s message is simply true in this sense as well: believing in this Jesus, following his call, means having life in HIS name. All the time.

This is not a new message in the gospel family, the church. Followers of Christ are quite used to a pattern by now. Together we have gone on excursions of faithful hope to places here in our hearts, in our own homes, in our village, in the city. With the best of intentions we have thought that doing so is about our giving of ourselves. And, of course, to some extent that is true. We give something of ourselves. And we have taken something of Christ Church’s love – the love of our neighbors – with us. But ask any who have gone on even a short journey of outreach, and you’ll know that we always receive more than we give. Always.

Thomas – Doubting Thomas, we call him – reaches out in today’s lesson to touch the wounded side of the risen Christ. Only in doing so, he says, will he believe. The church is called to continue touching the wounds of a damaged world. For we live in a world that is both damaged and a damaging. Our task, as a family of faith, is to touch the damage, to right it if possible, but always to know the truth of the pain. We are to feel with those who are forgotten, and then to speak up for those whose voices are no longer heard.

In a world where airplanes go down and pollution goes up, we are called to touch our neighbor’s wounds.

In a world where some are healthy and others are hungry, we are called to touch our neighbor’s wounds.

In a world where children are sold for sex or sent to carry drugs or merely ignored by the flickering light of television, we are called to care for children with wounds.

In a world where the gap continues to widen between those who are invited to the table of abundance, and those who can only sit at the door and imagine the feast, we are called to touch the wounds. And to name the injustice for the sin that it is.

In a world where, on Easter day, the day of life, a toddler can be killed by a “stray” bullet spewed from one of host of unnecessary weapons, we are called to touch the wounds. And to name as senseless our desire to arm ourselves against our neighbors rather than loving them in Christ’s name.

In a world where children repeatedly go to bed hungry, where – as I saw once in saw Costa Rica – a child’s career choices are between a machete and a shovel, and children routinely must walk to school every day without any shoes, past fields meant to supply our very own tables with pineapples, we are called to touch the wound, and bring a gesture of hope.

The risen Christ is with us. I feel his breath, inviting me to continue the journey. It is this breath, nothing less than an invitation to live. Watch for the graceful moments of mystery. To watch for such a One may be a bit like looking for a stray coyote in a city of few true surprises. And yet, sometime, the risen One is with us. Even now, if you are still, you may feel his breath as He whispers your name.

Thanks be to God, who gives us such surprises. Amen.
Mamaroneck UMC, April 11, 2010
 

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