Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Assumptions

April 5, 2026

Acts 10:34-43
John 20:1-18

It’s very difficult to get through the day without making decisions based on assumptions. Absent any reason to believe otherwise, I assume that the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening, and I act accordingly. I assume that gravity will hold me to the ground and that when I breathe in, I’ll take in good air. I assume that water will satisfy my thirst and that eating will satisfy my hunger.

I have to say that those assumptions have held up pretty well over the years.

There are other assumptions that I tend to check. I’ll give a sniff to the package of grated cheese in the refrigerator before I add it to anything. Lately with our rather chilly mornings I’ve been checking the temperature outside before picking up a jacket – even though I feel somewhat cold in the house. It might be warmer outside; who knows?

Then there are the things I avoid making assumptions about. When driving, I take note of people’s turn signals, but you know what? I prepare myself for other drivers to do things they haven’t signaled. It’s not very trusting, I know, but it’s helped keep me from accidents. And anyone who has watched me with my keys has seen me tap my pocket – or reach into it – before I close a door that will lock. I always put my keys in the same pocket. But do I trust them to be there?

No.

On that first Easter morning, assumptions were front and center, as is common for human beings. Most of the assumptions were completely normal ones, things that we assume as well from one day to the next.

The first assumption was so human that John didn’t bother to name it. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb…” John didn’t mention her reason, because he didn’t have to. We mourn at graves and tombs and columbaria whether the death was recent – like Friday – or years and years ago. Look over a cemetery sometime. Look at all the floral displays. Each one marks a visit in love and grief.

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb assuming that things would be as they’d been on Friday, and that was the first assumption to give way that morning. She saw the stone had been rolled aside. For the moment, she didn’t even look inside. She ran back to the place where some of the disciples were staying. She’d made an assumption, I think: she assumed that they could do something to help. It didn’t turn out to be a good assumption. They ran out to the tomb themselves, but once they arrived, what could they do? They looked inside. They saw the discarded grave cloths. One of them believed – though it’s one of the mysteries of this text what he believed – and then…

They left. Whatever Mary Magdalene had hoped for from the two men, she didn’t get it.

She was left now with, perhaps not an assumption, but a conclusion. Something was wrong. Beyond the terrible loss of Jesus’ life, now his body had disappeared. Someone who had been cruelly put to death could not even be left to rest in peace.

She looked into the tomb for the first time that morning, and found it, not empty as I’m sure she assumed, but occupied by what John described later as two angels in white. I’m sure she assumed that they were ordinary people, because she didn’t ask them anything. She just told them why she was crying.

Then the final assumption. Outside the tomb stood another person, a male figure in the morning light. He asked her who she was looking for – an important question. As Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “This is the third time this question has appeared in the Gospel, every time asked by Jesus. They are his first words to the first disciples, with the only difference being ‘what’ instead of ‘whom’ (John 1:38). To ask this question of Mary here takes the reader back to the calling of the disciples and implies that Mary, too, is considered a disciple.”

Of course she was wrong. It wasn’t a gardener. It was Jesus. In that moment of realization, so many assumptions came crashing down. In the normal way of things, the powers of the city leadership, the priesthood, and especially the Roman Governor should have been close to absolute. If they decided to execute someone and to further humiliate him after his death, they could do it. They did do it to people over and over again.

On that Easter morning, Mary found that the normal way of things wasn’t. The normal way of things had given way to something greater. Her assumptions had to be laid aside and left behind.

As Dorothy A. Lee writes at Working Preacher, “Mary does not reach the heights of faith without a struggle. This is a characteristic feature of John’s stories, in which faith comes through layers of misunderstanding. Step-by-step, the exemplary characters of the Gospel, including Mary herself, come to a spiritual comprehension of what is happening, moving from the material to the spiritual level. In this process, matter is not dismissed or set aside. On the contrary, the material is itself the means by which God in Christ is revealed, just as the flesh of Jesus in the incarnation radiates the divine glory (1:14).”

Her assigned task – to tell Jesus’ other friends and followers that he had risen – is the reason she has been called “the apostle to the apostles” for centuries. It’s worth noting that they don’t seem to have believed her. They had to make their own journey through misunderstanding.

On this Easter Day, what assumptions can we, might we, possibly even should we leave behind?

I think we might start by building on Mary’s assumption that that Sunday morning would be like any other morning. It was a uniquely heartbreaking morning, but familiar. We begin most of our days, even the heartbreaking ones, believing that they will be more or less predictable, that while they might bring some surprises, even those unusual things will fit within our basic expectations.

Perhaps we might consider each day as a potential setting for a miracle.

In a sense, miracles happen every day. On the worst day I’ve ever lived, I have been living, and life itself is miraculous. The natural world is resplendent with beauty of sight, sound, smell, texture, and taste. Human love, expressed through conversation in person or over the ether, fills the heart. Each day is filled with miracles.

But each day is also one in which God’s uniquely overwhelming love might make itself felt – any morning, any noon, any evening, any night. At any moment, we might find our hearts moved by something that is the compassion of God, the embrace of Jesus, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. At any moment, we might find ourselves surprised to find that death does not have the power we assume, that oppressive earthly authorities do not have the last word, that sin and evil cannot stand against the power of love.

What would it have looked like if Mary had come to the tomb on a day that could have included a miracle?

She might have viewed the moved stone with wonder. She might have fetched the disciples to join her in awe. She might have recognized the angels as angels, and she might have asked them, “What has happened?” rather than continuing to assume that she knew what had happened.

Finally, she might have recognized Jesus before he said her name. She might not have shown it – even in a mind ready for a miracle, I’d have probably been speechless – but when Jesus did say her name, when he did demonstrate that she was one of his flock, whose name he knew, when he called her, I’m pretty sure she’d have done exactly what she did.

Rush to embrace him.

What would it look like for us to see each day as a potential setting for a miracle?

I’m pretty sure we’d appreciate the daily miracles better – sunrise, sunset, sea foam, birdsong, mountains, flowers, and above all else the wonders of human companionship. Those are worth celebrating.

We’re also likely to approach the sadnesses and trials of our days with more hope. Pain and sorrow are real, but in any day God might just do something to comfort them. We still have to work to make things better, but we can do so confident of God’s aid.

Most of all, we live each day prepared to say, “I have seen the Lord,” I know that my Redeemer lives, I have heard my name, I have been held in loving embrace, I have a story to tell and to share from it.

Let today be one in which you celebrate the Easter miracle, and rejoice in the life of Jesus.

Let tomorrow be one in which you anticipate new miracles, and rejoice ever and always in the life of Jesus.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Regrettably, the sermon was not recorded this morning.

The image is an illumination on parchment by Unknown author (ca. 1503-1504) – This image is available from the National Library of Wales. You can view this image in its original context on the NLW Catalogue, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44920216.

Rev. Eric Anderson Pastor's Corner, What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Increase Our Faith

Jesus’ followers asked him to increase their faith. But who has the responsibility to make that happen?

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the seventeenth chapter of Luke’s Gospel (Luke 17:5-10), in which the apostles asked Jesus to increase their faith.

Jesus responded first with that well known comparison between faith and the mustard seed. If you have faith the size of a mustard seed — which is quite small — then you can say to a tree: go, uproot yourself from the ground, and plant yourself in the sea. And it will.

Jesus then went on to say, how many of you, if you are the master of a house, would come back and say to the servants, “Go and feed yourselves?” Instead, you tell them to prepare your dinner and you sit down at the table and they feed you. In just such a way, said Jesus, you should be doing what God has told you.

It seems a puzzling response to a question about “increase our faith.” And yet, when I think about it, the question itself is a puzzling one. “Increase our faith” and we want God to do that for us, or at least that’s the implication of the apostles’ question. But is that where faith gets increased?

The beginning of faith is something of a gift of God revealing God’s self to us in such a way that we can begin to have faith. But how does faith increase? Isn’t that something that’s our responsibility? Isn’t that something that we do? Isn’t that something that we work at?

Jesus compared it to serving a master and, indeed, that is a well-known metaphor for our relationship with God — put in a very specific way, preparing the meal, performing the service helps people out.

Now I don’t know that we need to feed God. I’m sure God appreciates our efforts to feed the Divine. What I do know is, that that basic task of preparing a meal for those around us is one of those things that God has asked us to do. If we are to increase our faith, then preparing meals for others and therefore opening our hearts to God: that is the way to increase our faith.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Peter Like Jesus

May 11, 2025

Acts 9:36-43
John 10:22-30

Simon Peter had been enjoying a time of relative peace for the People of the Way, as Christians were known in those early days of the Church. After Saul’s conversion, which we read last week, efforts to suppress followers of Jesus had subsided quite a bit, so Simon Peter was able to move around and visit some of the communities that had emerged along the coast of the Mediterranean. In Lydda he’d healed a paralyzed man named Aeneas.

In Joppa they heard he was there and asked him to come visit them, because a valued woman in their community named Tabitha, also known as Dorcas, had died.

At Working Preacher, Eric Barreto asks one of my questions: “Peter’s arrival brings hope in its wake. One wonders, however, what Tabitha’s friends expected when they called Peter. Did they want Peter to know about this extraordinary believer? Did they wish for the memory of her dear friend to be shared with this pillar of the burgeoning church? Did they perhaps hope for a miracle beyond miracles? Did they perhaps hope against hope for a reprieve from death?”

Had they asked for what they received?

This story looks a lot like a healing story from the Gospel of Luke (Luke wrote the book of Acts) and the Gospel of Mark (Luke used Mark as a source for his gospel). Raj Nadella writes in Working Preacher, “In both stories, the miracle occurs in a private setting. Just as Jesus sends everyone except Peter, James, and John out of the room prior to the miracle, Peter sends everyone out in this story. In both accounts, the deceased comes back to life after being ordered to get up. It is as if Peter, who was present when Jesus raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead, replicates a similar miracle at Joppa.”

Simon Peter imitated Jesus.

Imitation frequently isn’t welcome in our society. We may exclaim, “How cute! He’s so much like his dad!” when a child is three or four and, let’s face it, might have Dad’s nose but is he working for a bank? No. We dislike imitation in the creative arts, or at least we do most of the time. Someone who makes sculptures meticulously by hand but does so as an exact copy of somebody else’s work doesn’t get a lot of credit. Of course, if they sell the sculpture as if it was produced by the artist they’ve imitated, they’re subject to arrest and prosecution. In the ministry, there’s a long history of preachers reading sermons written by other people. Sometimes they’ve acknowledged this, and sometimes they haven’t.

Heaven help the eight-year-old who copies from the student’s paper next to them while they’re taking a test.

Imitation might be a sincere form of flattery – Oscar Wilde didn’t say that, by the way; it was published at least thirty years before he was born – but our affection for flattery goes only so far.

Simon Peter, though. He imitated Jesus.

So, in different ways, had Tabitha herself. Raj Nadella continues, “Tabitha became a prominent disciple not because of any familial connections, or even because of her apparent wealth, but because of the networks she built with widows, the most marginalized in the community. Her ministry reminds readers of the early Church’s commitment to ensure that no widow was overlooked in their everyday needs (Acts 6:1-6).” When Peter arrived, her friends did the things that people do. They started telling him Tabitha’s life story. This is an outfit she made for me. These are the ways she helped our family to thrive. This is the way she kept us all together in the Way.

So many times when I’ve spoken with people after a loved one has passed, they’ve showed me things they made, told me things that they’d done. That’s what Tabitha’s community did when Peter appeared.

Then Simon Peter imitated Jesus.

As Jesus had done at the bedside of the little girl, he sent everyone out of the room. As Jesus had done at the bedside of the little girl, he prayed. As Jesus had done at the bedside of the little girl, he said, “Tabitha, get up.” Jesus had said, “Talitha cum,” Aramaic for “Little girl, get up.” As Jesus had done at the bedside of the little girl, he saw her eyes open.

Simon Peter imitated Jesus.

Peter. Like Jesus.

There’s a phrase that flies about the Christian world, or at least the American Christian world, that goes, “What would Jesus do?” You’ll sometimes see WWJD on bumper stickers or small signs in a home. Personally, I think that’s an awfully good question most of the time. Looking at the things that Jesus did – or didn’t do – can help us avoid major mistakes and guide us to better actions.

The difficulty is that Jesus didn’t live in the twenty-first century, and we face realities he didn’t. It’s not that he couldn’t have something to say about them, but in the first century he didn’t say anything about them. What would Jesus do about Generative Artificial Intelligence? I don’t know. How would he parse the competing goods between automation that reduces human risk of death and injury and also deprives them of income-producing labor? I don’t know that, either.

I did appreciate David Hayward’s recent cartoon picturing Jesus saying, “You have heard me say: be humble, forgive, love and show mercy. But now I say unto you: ridicule those who disagree with you, despite people of other orientations, denigrate women, and above all be arrogant and rude!”

I hope David Hayward didn’t hurt himself putting his tongue that far into his cheek.

A lot of imitating Jesus can be done through the first part of that message: “Be humble, forgive, love and show mercy.” There is no particular skill level required. I grant you that there are ways to get better at loving, it takes a lot of practice to live humbly, and forgiveness will always challenge us. But a five year old can say, “I’m sorry,” and a five year old can say, “That’s all right.” A five year old can imitate Jesus.

So how about you and me?

Not all of us will imitate Jesus as Simon Peter did. If I have talents for human resurrection, I’m not aware of it and for sure I haven’t demonstrated it. It has to be said, however, that that was a rare manifestation of the Holy Spirit in Peter’s day. It’s more common in ours. People return to living from near death and from death itself more often today than they did two thousand years ago. Someone I know recently had open heart surgery, and you know, the heart stops during open heart surgery and then gets started again. Simon Peter himself would be astonished.

If it takes us more work than it did Simon Peter, is that really less astonishing?

It’s not just resurrection or even healing. It’s solidarity and community. Remember that Tabitha imitated Jesus by caring for the widows around her, some of the people at most risk for neglect and deep need. Tabitha imitated Jesus so well that her friends wept deeply for her loss.

I keep saying that we have a distorted view of greatness. I’m afraid rulers called “the Great” have usually done a lot of harm through wars and conquest. Some years ago I stood on the Nu’uanu Pali with a child of O’ahu who described the terrible battle in which Kamehameha I’s army had driven the soldiers of O’ahu over the cliff. “Some of us,” my friend said, “aren’t of one mind about Kamehameha.” Charles the Great of France, usually known as Charlemagne, applied the death penalty to pagan practices. Genghis Khan brought war and terror to large areas of China and central Asia.

The list goes on.

Every once in a while I meet somebody truly great. I meet somebody in whose simple presence my spirit lifts. I meet somebody whose graciousness just flows. I meet somebody who brightens my day. Every once in a mile I meet somebody great.

Like Tabitha. Like Peter. Like Jesus.

As Jennifer T. Kaalund writes at Working Preacher, “Although [Tabitha] may not have been famous or well-known, she was important to those who did know her. It is clear that she loved and that she was loved. They did not want to lose her. She was a disciple who was giving and faithful—would that we all might be described as such.”

Would that we all be described as such. Like Tabitha. Like Peter. Like Jesus.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric preaches from a prepared text (it’s what we’ve provided above) but he does tend to improvise while he preaches, so what you just read is not exactly what he said.

The image is of a Byzantine mosaic in the Capella Palestina in Palermo, Sicily. Photo by Rmsrga – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31666134.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Mystery

January 5, 2025

Jeremiah 31:7-14
John 1:1-18

When I was in seminary, one of my professors had something useful to tell us about theological mystery, that is, the things we had to admit we did not know and probably would not know. “Before you call it a mystery,” said Dr. Carlston, “do the work to see what you can learn about it.”

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

I don’t know if it made the papers he read any better, but it certainly made them longer. His students couldn’t get away with writing, “It’s a mystery,” as the first and last line.

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

Like the ‘apapane trying to find the source of nectar’s sweetness, you may not have the resources to learn the truth. You may not be able to peer into the workings of leaves and chlorophyll, or the daily work that roots do to pull water and nutrients from the soil. The chemistry of it all might be beyond your education or the tools available. That’s OK.

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

John’s Gospel opens with this profound section that, for nearly two thousand years, has swept its readers into the realm of mystery. As Meda Stamper writes at Working Preacher, “Because the prologue is poetic and mystical, it moves us in a way that transcends thought. The glory of the Synoptic angels and star is expanded into a view from before time into forever. Then the ‘we’ of 1:14 draws us into this cosmic love story of God and the world and every human in it.”

That’s the “we” of “We have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”

Now, it’s likely that when we’re done with this sermon, it will still be a mystery. But… let’s do the work.

The opening of John’s Gospel has roots in the life of Jesus Christ, of course. It also has roots in Jewish and Greek thought. The “Word” that was in the beginning with God strongly resembles the figure of Wisdom from Proverbs 8. In Proverbs, Wisdom labored beside God in the Creation of the world: “Then I was beside him, like a master worker.” (Proverbs 8:30)

Greek philosophers, probably somewhat later, developed the concept of Word, or logos in Greek, that connected the rational structure of the world with rational speech. Heraclitus wrote, “This logos holds always but humans always prove unable to ever understand it, both before hearing it and when they have first heard it. For though all things come to be in accordance with this logos, humans are like the inexperienced when they experience such words and deeds as I set out, distinguishing each in accordance with its nature and saying how it is. But other people fail to notice what they do when awake, just as they forget what they do while asleep.”

Philo of Alexandria, who was born about fifteen years before Jesus, incorporated that Greek idea of a rational universe expressed by logos, by Word, and wrote: “…No material thing is strong enough to bear the burden of the world. But the everlasting Word [logos] of the eternal God is the firmest and surest support of the whole. He stretches to reach from the middle to the edges and from the heights to the midst, uniting and binding all the parts with nature’s unfailing course. For the Father who begot [gennésas] him made him the unbreakable bond of all.”

Does that sound familiar? “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”

I don’t know whether John read Philo. I don’t think it matters. People were comparing the thinking of Greek philosophers and Jewish theologians in the first century, finding similarities between a rational universe that resembled rational thought, and a universe created through the exercise of Divine Wisdom. It seems John knew about that.

And along came Jesus.

During his life and ministry, it has to be said, people didn’t seem to make a connection between Jesus and logos, Wisdom, or Word. They knew him as a healer, storyteller, and healer. They began to ask questions about whether he fit the definition of a Messiah – and enough people asked that question loudly enough that the Romans stepped in to crucify him as an attempted rebel. As impressed by his wisdom as they were, even his closest friends don’t seem to have asked, “Are you the Wisdom who created the universe with God when it began?”

After Jesus’ resurrection, however, people began to ask that very question. They began to employ the phrase, “Son of God,” which might not have meant more than the idea that we are all children of God, but they meant something different. The Apostle Paul wrote the Colossians, “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him.” (Colossians 1:15-16)

Sound familiar?

Logos. Word. Wisdom. Son.

“God choosing to put skin on and walk among us,” writes Karyn Wiseman at Working Preacher, “is one of the pivotal points in salvation history, which begins with the redemption of the Hebrew people and continues in the story of Jesus, his ministry with his disciples, and his death and resurrection (verse 14). This point of Jesus being fully human and fully divine has been a bone of contention in history and continues to baffle some in the faith today. But for me it is one of the most important tenets of the faith — that God loved the world so much that God came to dwell among us, teach us, and die for us (John 3: 16).”

I can connect the dots from Jewish and Greek thinking to John’s opening words. I can connect the dots from the figure of Wisdom to the Apostle Paul’s declaration of “the firstborn of all creation.” What I can’t do is describe the process by which God’s grace became flesh and dwelt among us. It’s as mysterious to me as the processes of roots and light and chlorophyll are to the ‘apapane – and it’s possible that the ‘apapane has a better understanding of those things than I know. Christ’s incarnation remains, in great degree, a mystery.

The impact of the Incarnation, though: ah, that’s another thing. Dr. Wiseman is right. “This point of Jesus being fully human and fully divine has been a bone of contention in history and continues to baffle some in the faith today. But for me it is one of the most important tenets of the faith — that God loved the world so much that God came to dwell among us, teach us, and die for us (John 3: 16).” I don’t think I can put it better than that.

By whatever mysterious mechanism, God chose to be born as one of us, to live as one of us, to eat and drink and speak and listen and do all the things as one of us, to die as one of us. Why? To love us in a new and different way. To show us the depth of that Divine love. To invite us into that love now and for eternity.

Yes, it’s a mystery. But it’s a mystery of love, which always has some mystery in it. It’s a mystery that lifts and comforts the soul. It’s a mystery that invites us to keep looking into it, to learn more, and to encounter God’s love once again.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric preaches from a prepared text, but he is inclined to vary from it. Sometimes he thinks that’s better.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Informing Questions

A lot of people asked Jesus questions when he taught in the Temple. One asked a question to learn.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the twelfth chapter of Mark’s Gospel (Mark 12:28-34), which finds Jesus teaching in the Temple during the last week of his life.

Most of chapter twelve is fairly contentious. Jesus argued with Sadducees, he argued with representatives of the priesthood, he argued with Pharisees who were present, he argued with Herodians. In general, people seemed to be determined to catch him in a falsehood, or an untruth, or something that would get him in trouble either with the officials or with the crowds.

And then along comes this one scribe. We don’t know his name. Mark says that the scribe saw that Jesus answered them well, and so the scribe asked a question: “Which one is the greatest commandment?” That was a fairly standard kind of conversation opener between religious teachers in the first century, and for that matter, in the twenty-first century.

Jesus answered the question — not something that Jesus was really noted for in chapter twelve. Jesus said, the first is to love the Lord your God; the second is to love your neighbor as yourself. The scribe agreed. Jesus told him that he was not far from the realm of God.

It turns out that we learn more when we ask questions that are intended to help us learn something, to help us understand something, to help us build a relationship with someone. The questions that are designed to trap or ensnare, the questions that are designed to confirm our own opinions: they don’t lead us much of anywhere. The scribe asked a question to which he clearly had an answer, since he in the end agreed with Jesus’ answer, but he asked it because he wanted to know what Jesus thought.

And he found out. He found out something that he already knew about God, but he found out something about Jesus that until that moment he could not have known, with so many others engaged in a process of trying to trap or ensnare.

In these days, so many questions are asked in order to put somebody in a position that they cannot escape. Wouldn’t we be better off if we asked questions to learn, to grow, to understand, to build relationship with those around us?

Then, indeed, we might find ourselves not far from the realm of God.

That’s what I’m thinking I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: There’s Always One Who Misses Something

April 7, 2024

1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19-31

In my life, it must be said, I spend a lot of time in meetings. Meetings of church leaders here, meetings with leaders in other congregations around East Hawai’i, leaders of churches around Hawai’i Island, leaders of churches around the Hawaiian Islands. They’re pastors, they’re lay people, they’re people with specialized training, they’re people with long histories of leadership, they’re newcomers to how to live their lives of faith.

And, just like the origins of nene school, at each meeting there’s always someone who’s missed something. Maybe it was discussed at the last meeting. Maybe they weren’t there. Maybe they were there and they just missed it. There’s always someone.

It’s not uncommon that the someone is me.

You, maybe? You don’t need to admit it.

On that first Easter day, the someone was Thomas. Everybody else was in hiding, keeping the door locked because the soldiers of the Temple or of the Roman Governor would not break down a locked door… well, they would, so the logic wasn’t good. Scared people don’t always think that clearly. Why were they scared? To put it in contemporary terms, they were close associates of a convicted criminal, a criminal whose crime of rebellion was so dangerous that he was tried and executed in less than a day. They had every reason to fear that the search for rebels wasn’t over.

As Joy J. Moore writes at Working Preacher, “The unconfirmed rumors of the resurrection started by Mary has brought neither understanding nor obedience. Perplexity and amazement, cynicism and unbelief. The disciples are clueless concerning the meaning of Jesus’ death, disappointed by this presumed dashing of their hopes, and astounded by reports of the empty tomb (not much has changed).

“The disciples are fearful. Good news does not erase fear. Good news, incredible news, can ignite hope, but even hope does not eliminate genuine fear.”

Thomas, however, wasn’t there. Thomas was the brave one. Thomas was the one who dared to go out and learn what was going on. To be clear, I don’t know for certain that that’s what Thomas was doing. But John mentioned his bravery earlier in the book, when he quoted Thomas as saying, “Let us also go, so that we may die with him.” Thomas was the one with the courage to leave the locked room and discover the truth.

Unfortunately for Thomas, the truth came to the locked room rather than waiting to be found elsewhere in the city. Jesus ignored the locks and came to the place where the disciples were. He didn’t wait for them to develop Thomas’ courage. He came to the place where they were.

They weren’t ready for it. Can we be honest about that? They weren’t ready. Jesus greeted them pretty conventionally. “Shalom aleichem” is the Hebrew of “Peace be with you,” and Jews use that as a common greeting to this very day. To greet someone with a wish for peace is both a profound and a mundane thing, rather the way that we in Hawai’i use “Aloha.” How often do we appreciate that we greet one another with love?

But they weren’t ready. They said nothing until Jesus showed – with his wounds – that it was he, himself, for real, standing there. “Then they rejoiced when they saw the Lord.” I remind you that they’d already heard the news from Mary Magdalene, that they were curious enough to get Thomas to go out and see what more he could learn, and they still acted, one and all, like they’d missed the memo.

There’s always one who misses something. Or, in this case, ten.

All too often we make Thomas into the one who missed something. He did. But he was not the only one, and not the first one. He was just the one who got the longer story. As Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “I see a man who desired a holy and beautiful thing — a living encounter with Jesus. A man who wouldn’t settle for someone else’s experience of resurrection, but stuck around in the hope of having his own. A man who dared to confess uncertainty in the midst of those who were certain. A man who recognized his Lord in scars, not wonders.”

Likewise Cheryl Lindsay writes at UCC.org, “I wonder if Thomas is our twin. If our story of hearing these accounts with some skepticism coupled with hope binds us together like a joint umbilical cord of faith being born. Thomas did not flatly refuse to believe; he rejects a faith that relies strictly upon the experience of others. His faith waits for an encounter with the Living God. Once he has it, his claim is swift and resolute, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Hope prevailed. Jesus lives. The world had changed. Life had changed.”

Yes, he missed something. Beyond his expectation, what he missed he then experienced. As with the rest of them the week before, Jesus came to Thomas with what he needed – or at least what he said he needed – rather than insisting that Thomas come to some mysterious place to learn more.

What have we missed? What have you missed? What is that puka in your spirit that needs filling? What certainty do you need to lay aside in order to appreciate a new truth?

Faith does not have a problem with doubt. I’ve said this before. Faith has a problem with certainty. Jesus’ disciples, from Simon Peter on along to Thomas, knew that he was dead. They knew it for certain. They’d heard the word that he’d risen, but, well, they’d missed something even as they heard it. They’d missed that it was true.

What do you know for certain that prevents you from appreciating the truth of God’s aloha? Or God’s shalom? Or God’s resurrection and life?

What have you missed along the way that’s begging to be renewed?

Here’s the good news: whether you know what it is or not, Jesus comes not to where you ought to be, but to where you are. Jesus comes to where you’ve locked the door to your heart, not to the place where you’d like to be. Jesus comes to you, not to the perfect person you pretend to be and know you aren’t.

Jesus comes to you with life and truth and peace and love and the Holy Spirit. And yes: blessed are those who, like us, have not seen and yet have come to believe.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

The video includes the entire worship service of Apr. 7, 2024. Clicking “Play” will jump to the beginning of the sermon.

Pastor Eric makes changes from his prepared text while he preaches. Sometimes he means to. Sometimes he doesn’t.

The image is Risen Christ Appearing to the Disciples, a print from Old and New Testaments (1547), by Augustin Hirschvogel – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=115877421.