An Easter Sunday Sermon . . . from THE TESTIMONIUM

   It's Easter Sunday again, time to celebrate the remarkable event that lies at the heart of the Christian faith.  As I remarked to my students at the Christian School where I teach this week, Jesus could have said every single word attributed to Him in the Gospels, and done every other thing the Gospels claimed that He did - but if He did not rise from the dead on the third day, then he is just another dead philosopher.  His disciples knew this and proudly proclaimed it in their teachings, and in the letters they wrote, which became part of our New Testament.  The sermon below is part of the first chapter of my first novel, THE TESTIMONIUM, and it reflects what I preached on many an Easter Sunday when I was still a pastor.  I've shared it here before, but I felt this was a good time to share it again.

He is risen.

Dr. Joshua Parker folded his long legs under him and settled into the pew after the last song ended.  He picked up his well-worn New American Standard Bible and smiled as his father, Benjamin Parker, walked up to the pulpit.  “Brother Ben,” as Baptists in a tri-state area referred to his father, was a towering man in his early seventies with a deep booming voice and an accent that had never left the Ozark ridges where he had been born at the end of the Great Depression.  It was Easter Sunday, and Josh smiled at the thought that Dad’s new church was about to hear his signature sermon for the very first time.  It was a message that lay at the core of everything his father had believed and taught over a ministry that stretched nearly fifty years.  Josh had heard it many times growing up, and every year his father polished it a bit, updated the pop culture references to fit his current congregation, and then, in the language of the rural South, “rared back and let them have it.” Josh watched as his dad began to speak.

          “This morning I want to talk to you about one of my favorite passages of Scripture.  But it isn’t because it is my favorite that I want to talk to you about it.  It’s because I consider it to be the MOST important passage in all the New Testament – arguably the most important passage in all of Scripture.”  As Brother Ben’s golden tones resonated throughout the crowded auditorium, the audience shifted its attention slightly.  Some leaned forward; others redirected their gaze from the people around them to the tall figure in the pulpit.  Obviously the new pastor, whom they had already come to respect and admire, had something important to say.

           Casting his piercing gaze around the room, Parker smiled, then lowered his eyes to the large print Bible before him – although he could quote this passage from memory, he wanted to drive home the fact that he was quoting the Bible verbatim: “From the Book of First Corinthians, Chapter Fifteen, beginning in Verse One:  Now I make known to you, brethren, the gospel which I preached to you, which also you received, in which also you stand,   by which also you are saved, if you hold fast the word which I preached to you, unless you believed in vain.   For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received, that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures,   and that He was buried, and that He was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures,   and that He appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve.   After that He appeared to more than five hundred brethren at one time, most of whom remain until now, but some have fallen asleep;  then He appeared to James, then to all the apostles;  and last of all, as to one untimely born, He appeared to me also.   For I am the least of the apostles, and not fit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God.”

          Looking up, he posed a question: “Why would I call this so important? Simple.  It is, first of all, the earliest written account we have of those who actually saw the Risen Christ.  Most scholars think the crucifixion was in 33 AD.  Paul wrote these lines in 54 AD – twenty-one years later, and at least ten years before Matthew, Mark, and Luke began composing their gospels.  Obviously, he placed great weight on these words, because he described them “as of first importance.” This simple account of the Resurrection was foundational to everything Paul taught the churches throughout his long ministry.  But let me draw your attention to an odd phrase here: “I delivered to you . . . what I also received.”  What does Paul mean?  Well, when rabbis used that phrase, it was to indicate that the teaching they were about to impart was something someone else had taught them.  And the list of witnesses that followed is arranged in simple Greek verse form so it could be easily memorized. This wasn’t just a random bit of trivia that someone taught to Paul: it appears to be one of the very first catechisms composed by the early church.  So when would someone have taught Paul about how many people witnessed the Resurrection?  What opportunity did he have to meet the original disciples who were there in Jerusalem that first Easter morning?  The answer can be found in Paul’s very first letter, which we call The Book of Galatians, written about six years before his letters to Corinth.  In his account of his conversion, Paul explains: “Three years later” – that is, after his conversion on the Damascus road – “I went up to Jerusalem to become acquainted with Cephas, and stayed with him fifteen days.”  Now of course, Cephas is the Greek form of Simon Peter.  What makes this so critical?  The timing, my friends.  Paul was converted only a few years – maybe two or three at most – after the Crucifixion.  And three years after that, he is in Jerusalem, visiting Simon Peter.  That would place this visit about five or six years after Jesus was crucified.  Nearly all the eyewitnesses were still alive at this point! And not just the friendly eyewitnesses either.  The men who crucified Jesus were still present, and most of them still in power.  The members of the angry mob that arrested him were still around, as would have been some of the soldiers who guarded the tomb.”

          Parker paused, gathering steam.  In his pew, Josh watched with interest.  His dad had them now.  Every eye in the place was on the pulpit.  This was not just another tame old Easter sermon, this was thought provoking stuff!  The elder Parker continued: “Now, we have grown up in the church, most of us.  We have had the Easter story recited to us every year since we were toddlers.  And most of us have never questioned it at all. So the incredible import of what Paul is telling us here is easy to miss!  Let me put it to you this way: suppose that, around the summer of 1969 or 1970, I showed up in Dealey Plaza down in Dallas.  Then I found myself a soapbox and began to talk about what had happened there just six years earlier.  Imagine if I said: “Yes, my friends, it was right here, in this very spot, that President Kennedy’s motorcade passed through town.  And three shots rang out, one of which pierced his brain and took his life.  And he was buried in a lavish tomb in Arlington National Cemetery that Monday, as all the world looked on.  Then, three days later, he rose from the dead, and he appeared – first to Bobby, then to the Cabinet.  After that he appeared to LBJ, alone, then to the cabinet again, and then to over 500 witnesses at the same time – most of whom are still alive today!  Last of all, I saw him myself, right on I-30 between here and Texarkana!  How do you think THAT would go over?” he thundered.

          The audience was trying to process this.  Some of the younger ones laughed out loud, while many older ones scowled at the pastor, wondering what he was getting at.  Josh, who had heard this illustration many times before, was nonetheless moved by it all over again.  His father’s voice crackled across the assembly: “They’d start measuring me for a rubber room, wouldn’t they? Because they understood a fundamental truth in Dallas in 1970, just the same as they understood it in Jerusalem in 40 AD – Dead people STAY dead!”  Now they got it.  Many in the audience began to nod; others looked stunned as they processed what they were being told.

          “Yet right there in Jerusalem, the town that murdered Jesus, in the stronghold of his enemies, the early church was not only proclaiming his resurrection, they were giving a whole list of everyone who had seen him! And fifteen years later, Paul was still able to say that most of the eyewitnesses were still alive!  Now listen carefully, folks – there was only ONE way that the early church could have gotten away with proclaiming such an outrageous tale in the seat of Jesus’ enemies – and that was if even his enemies knew the story to be true!  After all, if his body were still in that tomb that James Cameron says he found, all the Pharisees and Roman authorities would have had to do would be exhume the body and drag it through the streets of Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost.  Christianity would have been murdered in its cradle!  But they couldn’t do that, now could they?  Because the body was – not – there.

 

His father was reading the final passage of the day as he returned his attention to the sermon:  “For if the dead are not raised, not even Christ has been raised; and if Christ has not been raised, your faith is worthless; you are still in your sins.   Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished.   If we have hoped in Christ in this life only, we are of all men most to be pitied.”

 

          Brother Ben looked slowly around the room. “I put it to you today, my friends, that Paul got it absolutely right.  The world has been doing its best to put Jesus back in that tomb for 2,000 years because they understand what many Christians forget: that if Jesus did not rise from the dead, our faith is based on a lie. Our belief is not in a risen Savior, but a desiccated corpse.   If Jesus did not rise from the dead on the third day, we might as well tear down the church and build a bowling alley, for all the good we are doing anyone!”  He paused for the last time. “But that isn’t the case, is it?  We serve a living, risen Lord!  And because He was powerful enough to conquer the grave two thousand years ago, He is powerful enough to handle whatever you are struggling with today!  He holds out His hand to you this morning, offering to take your burden, to forgive your sin, to cleanse your life, and to make you a new creature!  All you have to do – is TAKE IT!”

 

 

SAYING GOODBYE. . . .

    It was the summer of 2014.  Late afternoon, I was on my way home from Dallas, where I'd been paying a visit to the SMU Paleontology Lab.  I'd had a nice lunch with my friend Mike and gotten to look at some really cool fossils, and was ready to get home, put my feet up, and maybe play a little SKYRIM before bed.  I was almost home - I'd gotten off of I-30 onto the service road - when I spotted a tiny scrap of yellow fur almost dead center in the middle of the road.  I thought maybe it was some kid's stuffed toy, a Beanie Baby perhaps, but as I passed it I saw that it was a tiny kitten - and that it was moving.

    I pulled over and got out of the car, walking back to where the helpless little thing was wriggling in the middle of the road, trying to get his feet under him.  I picked him up and checked him out.  He was obviously dying - there was blood coming from his nose and ears and the corners of his eyes, which were barely open.  I doubted he would last the hour.  I certainly didn't want him to end his brief existence as a bloody smear on the asphalt, so I carried him to the shade of a tree several feet away from the road and sat him down on a soft clump of grass.  At least he'd die comfortable, I thought, and turned to walk away.  Then he lifted his tiny head and started mewing at me.  My heart melted.

    I scooped him up and carried him home on my lap, worrying that he might expire before I could even cover the five minutes to my driveway.  My girls came out to meet me and I told them: "We're NOT keeping him; I just want to see if we can save him and find him a good home."  We put him in a cardboard box - a very small one at that! - with a couple of dishtowels to keep him warm.   After he had rested for a bit,  I went to the store and bought some canned cat food and put it in a bowl, mixing it up with warm milk.  We lifted him out of the box and set him in front of it.  Those tiny nostrils flared and he began eating as fast as he could, gulping down half the can in a minute or so.  I picked him up and put him back in the box, where he promptly curled up and went to sleep.

    For the first few days, he was too weak to climb out of the box, but once he got his strength back, he was suddenly all over the house.  We carried him around on his back like a baby, and my wife and daughters laughed when he would try to suckle their fingers.  He would curl up to sleep inside my shoes, climb the chair when I was sitting down in it to sit on my shoulder, and delighted in chasing our grown cat, Gina, all around the house.  He grew up to be a gorgeous yellow tom with a gentle heart and a striking puzzle pattern on his back that looked almost like a face from some angles.  He had such a soft purr you had to put your ear up to his chest to hear it, but he was the most loving and docile cat I have ever owned.  Needless to say, all that nonsense about "finding him a good home" lasted less than 48 hours.  WE were his good home.

    We named him Fortuna, Latin for "Lucky" - or just Tuna for short.  He was a wonderfully quirky cat.   He loved watermelon and cucumber, and went nuts for any kind of lotion or salve with menthol in it.  When my wife was taking a bath, he would sit on the edge of the tub and lick soapy water off of her arm and shoulder.  He LOVED curling up in the bathroom sink, or stretching out in the empty bathtub, especially on warm summer days.  He got along with everybody, even our dogs and goats.  Well, almost everybody.  The sugar gliders just looked too delicious for him, so we eventually gave them away to save them from becoming "Tuna Snacks."  He quickly became an indoor/outdoor cat, letting himself out if the door was not latched, and standing on his hind feet with his front paws against the door and mewing if he needed our help.  He was a mighty hunter in the land, specializing in field mice and sparrows, although he was not above chasing squirrels - I don't think he ever caught one.  He also delighted on hopping up on the kitchen table while my mother-in-law was sitting there. She chased him down so many times I swear he thought his name was "CAT! Get off the table!"

    When one of us was sick, he'd be a great "medicine kitty," curling up next to us and letting us pet him for hours.  At night, especially during the cold months, he loved to get right between us, usually on top of the blanket but sometimes under it.  And no matter how old he got, he never protested when I scooped him up and carried him on his back, paws in the air, while hugging him and calling him my "kitty boy."  We've had many cats over the years, but Tuna was uniquely mine from the first day. I've never been so attached to any feline in my life.

    Last Wednesday, I was on the way home from work with some meat to grill when Rebecca called me and said: "Dad, Tuna's hurt.  Something's wrong with his tail and he's got a big gash on his face."

     I met her at the vet clinic, and my first thought was one of relief.  The cut on his face was ugly, but his eye was not compromised.  He also had a long gash on his tail, but it wasn't too deep.  I could see, though, that his tail was hanging limp.  I was concerned, but not too much so - I mean, I would still love him if he became a bobcat, right?

    But as the days went on, it became apparent that his injuries were much more devastating than we realized.  His tail had been broken and dislocated right where it joined onto the sacrum, and that nerve bundle also controls a cat's bladder and rectal functions.  He was just as sweet, friendly, and curious as ever when I went to see him the next day, but the vet's tone was serious - if he couldn't regain digestive function, his quality of life would be severely compromised.  I wanted to keep him alive - OH! how desperately I wanted that.  I asked them to keep him over the weekend, to monitor him, just to see if there was any hope of recovery.  There wasn't.  Our vet was as kind as he could be, but he explained that even if we managed to physically force the waste from Tuna's body as it built up, it would be a painful process that would leave him prey to all manner of infections, internal bleeding, kidney stones, etc.  My hopes faded as I realized I wouldn't want that kind of life for my poor little kitty boy.  So this afternoon, my wife Patty and I went to the Animal Hospital to see him on his way.

   I held him and cried so hard, as Tuna sniffed my face and licked away the salt of my tears.  He purred and head butted us to be petted and have his ears scratched, then after a few minutes of being loved on, he decided to explore the examination room.  What did he do?  He found the sink and curled up in it, looking up at us with a satisfied air.  I had Patty take one last picture of us together, and then when the doctor came back in, I held him and petted him until the drugs kicked in and the end came.

    Oh Fortuna, my sweet, brave, kitty boy, you were gone all too soon. No more quiet companion by my side as I watch TV or read a book, no more inquisitive eyes watching me as I take a long hot soak at the end of the day.  No more warm furry lump in the bed between us at night.  You lovely cat, I wouldn't have given you my heart if I had known you were going to break it so soon!

    That's a lie.  Of course I would have.

    Oh Tuna, sweet boy, we barely knew ye.