April 19 ~ 40 years of Resurrection Witness in Orleans

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Acts 2:14a, 36-41

Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19

1 Peter 1:17-23

Luke 24:13-35

Sermon by Joel Crouse

A few weeks ago, my Facebook feed turned up a video; it was about a clip another person had posted: he was venting about the fact that when he was hiking up a mountain; he would pass a woman on her own and she wouldn’t make eye contact or say hello. “I am not dangerous,” he said. “Would a hello hurt you?” Some of you in the pews probably have some thoughts about that: first, who was this guy to dictate how someone else should respond to his hello? Could he really not understand why a woman walking alone might not speak to a stranger? And why was he so upset about it, anyway?

It’s fair to say that, for all kinds of reasons, we have become a society where saying hello to strangers is a declining trend. For our mothers, sister, wives, and daughters, listening to the rhetoric of the time, it is reasonable to be questioning; as a large man, I can’t relate to the constant surveillance that my wife, Erin, for instance, naturally does at night while walking alone.

Yet, we are an urban nation, people who live among strangers. So, what, then, is our responsibility to the stranger we encounter? Certainly, at the basic level, it is to respect another’s space and right to privacy; to not police their reaction to our hello, to not make them feel threatened or cornered, to be polite. If most of us did that – if most of us made clear that we would step in on a stranger’s behalf – the sense of unease among those most vulnerable would decrease. The consideration we show to strangers, even more than the kindness we show to friends, sets the tone for society; how we view strangers is one of the most significant factors when it comes to shaping societal trust and well-being.

The small moments of connection are a recognition of our common humanity, our shared journey through the world. Instead, we put on our headphones and look at our phones and pretend not to see one another.

Were the disciples also so blind, walking with their heads down, focused on their own problems, that they failed to recognize Jesus? They meet this man on the road and they are shocked to hear that he has not heard the news from Jerusalem. They debate the news, but still fail to see the man before them. They almost miss Jesus entirely, the very best person to assist them – just as we so often miss the presence of the gospel in our own lives by not seeing the person right in front of us. That opening scene on the road to Emmaus reminds us of an important lesson: don’t dwell so deeply on your own problems and thoughts that you miss the solution right in front of you.

But then, the disciples recover. Because where they do not fail is in their hospitality. As they walk with this stranger, the day grows late, the road falls into shadow. A lot can happen at night alone on a road. They invite the stranger to join them, to stay with them. Let’s have dinner together, they say. And their act of kindness leads to revelation: Jesus reveals himself and they finally realize whom they have been walking with.

What if they had just let the man carry on into the night? What if they had not invited him to dinner when they had dinner to share? They would never have broken bread with Jesus. They would have missed out entirely.

So much of Easter is a challenge for us to see the world as it is, to be open to what is precious and wondrous all around us. Once the tomb is open, the encounters Jesus has with the disciples are fairly low-key. Shocking to them, to be sure, but accompanied by fireworks and choreography. He talks to them, he walks with them, he eats with them. He comes to them in ordinary ways, as if to say to them, and to us – it is, here, in the ordinary passing of the day, that the gospel can be found.

We know this, of course – how contentment and joy can be experienced by watching grandchildren play, by reading a storybook to our children, sharing a warm coffee with a good friend, cuddling with our partner in front of the TV. Just like a helpful stranger, do we see those moments for the gifts they are? Do we reflect on what made those moments special and seek to have more of them? And if we did, would we not feel more at peace, and closer to the gospel?

On the road the Emmaus, the disciples invited a stranger to walk with them. They debated the events of the day, and, for all we can see, respected one another’s points of view – certainly enough that they were happy to keep talking. They offered, but did not demand, the safety of company. And they were rewarded, just as we so often are, by learning something new about the humanity around us. That man on the hike had it all wrong; never say hello to a stranger with expectation – say hello because it is right to do so. Respect what happens next. Give them space. Allow them a voice. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples did this very thing. And if they had been able to post to Tik Tok, their version of the results would not have been resentful or bitter, but joyful. They would have created an opportunity for the gospel to come into their lives with openness and generosity. May we do the same.

Amen

April 12 ~ Doubt Pushes Us to Make a Leap of Faith

Acts 2:14a, 22-32

Psalm 16

1 Peter 1:3-9

John 20:19-31

Sermon by Joel Crouse

“Often wrong, never in doubt.” I am not sure exactly who coined this phrase.  The credit, depending on who you ask, goes to a lot of different people in many walks of life -- politics, business, science and philosophy. But then that’s probably because we all know someone who leans hard on that tendency. People who offer opinions as if they are facts, or who cite facts you know to be wrong, and won’t back down. People who are so certain of their own perspectives that they have decided this is the truth of the world, no matter what anybody else says.

Certainly, we can see how dangerous this is for all of us: to have leaders who never doubt. Leaders like this never listen to other viewpoints. They are never cautious with their own reactions. They rarely pause to consider consequences. Indeed, right now, the world is embroiled in a dangerous war involving leaders – on both sides – who are so certain in their flawed opinions that they would rather endanger all of us than be wrong.

Recently I read an online post that Christianity fears doubt, because once you start doubting it takes you to a place where belief and faith make no sense.

But the opposite is true: it is doubt that makes faith possible. If we didn’t have doubt, we would never have to make the leap to faith. If we didn’t have doubt, why would we need hope, faith’s close companion? If we never had doubt, the world would never change and improve.

It is the questioning of what was believed to be true that led to progress. People who had doubts asked why some of their neighbors were treated differently from others, why some citizens didn’t get the right to vote, why some people in love were not allowed to marry? It is why, at the end of every scientific paper, you will find a section on limitations, where the scientists identify the parts of their findings they have yet to fully understand. 

And so, if we look at doubt as something to be championed, Thomas is not the weak link of our gospel this morning – as he is so often portrayed. He is the hero; he is honest about his doubts and seeks an answer to them.  

After all, the other disciples, locked in their room, were quaking in their doubt; for what is fear but doubting that things will work out? And what assuaged their fears was seeing Jesus in person. Thomas, who wasn’t there, only voices the question the other disciples would have also been thinking: “I can’t believe, he says, until I see it for myself.”

Thomas is the representation of all our doubts. Where is God when people suffer? Where is God when I suffer? Where is God in this chaotic, violent world?

And Jesus does not shame Thomas for expressing his doubt. He appears to him. A week later, Jesus comes back—for Thomas. He meets him exactly where he is. He invites his questions. He offers his wounds again, saying: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”  

And in that moment, we are reminded: following the gospel does not require blind faith.  It requires honest faith.

But then Jesus says: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

This statement has typically been seen as Jesus’s scolding Thomas, or as suggesting that those who believe without seeing are more faithful than he is. But the problem with this interpretation is that doubt doesn’t happen just once, it returns to us again and again.  To follow the gospel, Thomas would have had to believe without seeing many more times in his life.

Jesus, as I understand this passage, is saying there are two ways our faith is strengthened. There are things we see in the world around us – charity, kindness, the sunrise. And there are those unsettled mysteries that give us faith in something larger than ourselves. Nothing in life has a perfect and certain explanation. Every day we learn more about kindness as it appears in nature every day. We learned more about the sun when Artemis II made its lunar flyby this past week. We can never know everything – and in that unknowingness, we live with doubt. 

And to live fully in the human reality, we must accept what we do not know and have faith.  English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge called it, “the willing suspension of disbelief that constitutes poetic faith.” That is the blessing that Jesus extends in our sacred text today.  Many times, in our lives, we will have to leap - toward hope, toward joy, toward faith.  And when we do that, guided by the principles of the gospel, our doubt is what pushes us forward to a deeper understanding of the Divine. 

Faith is a recognition that the world is complicated, that thinking changes, that new discoveries are made. And that is the story of the Resurrection, as it plays out for the disciples, for Thomas, and for us.

The Resurrection we celebrate at Easter does not make the world perfect. It does not return us to some better time. It does not release the disciples from the risk-taking, courage, and hard work they will yet encounter. Jesus, in his very important conversation with Thomas, is reminding him, and all of us, that while we may get the answers clearly some of the time, we will have to go on faith most of the time. 

This is why, after all, we have the gospel to guide us forward in a nuanced world. When the path is unclear, how should we respond? We know this for sure: with compassion, with mercy, and with love. Amen

April 5 ~ Easter Sunday

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Jeremiah 31:1-6

Psalm : 118:1-2, 14-24

Acts 10:34-43

Matthew 28:1-10

Sermon by Joel Crouse

Christ is Risen!  Christ is Risen!  Alleluia!

Easter morning invites us into a story that is both familiar and astonishing, and yet it is easy to let its power slip past us. We hear about an empty tomb, an angel, two women running in fear and joy, and we think we already know what it means. 

But the heart of Easter is not simply that Jesus arose. It is that God’s answer to a world full of harm, fear, and injustice is not to condemn us but to offer renewal.  In despair, we are offered possibility. In resignation, we are given courage. 

Jeremiah gives us the first hint of this when he speaks to a people who have lived through devastation. They know exile, violence, and the collapse of everything they trusted. Yet God says to them, “I have loved you with an everlasting love… again I will build you, and you shall be built.”  

This is not a sentimental promise. It is a declaration that even after the worst has happened, God is not finished. We are not finished. God imagines a future where people plant vineyards again, where joy returns, where communities rebuild what was broken. The resurrection is a moment of new beginning, and fresh starts, and renewed energy. God opens the tomb and builds us up.

That is an important message on this Easter. We arrive here to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus – this miracle offering from God – and yet also burdened by difficult realities of the world right now. We see leaders who trade truth for power. We see communities targeted because of who they are. We see the vulnerable pushed aside. We see the ethical bar fall lower and lower. We are good at condemning.  We are less strong when it comes to pushing back and building up. This is why God comes to us at Easter and does the building up on our behalf.

Easter is the happy ending to Lent. And sometimes happy endings get a bad rap for being easy and maybe fluffy. But in happy endings we find goals to aspire to, we find comfort in grim times, and we find hope. And that’s the story of Easter – an aspirational, comforting, and hopeful promise from God. 

But Easter also asks something of us: a response. To look for the people who need protection. To shift our attention from the ones who cause harm to the ones who bear its price. 

There is a village that shows us what this looks like. During the Holocaust, the people of Le Chambon‑sur‑Lignon (luh sham-bon-suer-leen-yon), a small Protestant community in the mountains of France, quietly sheltered thousands of Jewish refugees. They hid children in their homes, forged identity papers, and smuggled families across borders. They did this while so many others responded with fear and conformity. When asked why they risked their lives, many villagers simply said, “We had no choice. They were human beings.”

Their pastor, André Trocmé, told his congregation that the Gospel demanded a refusal to cooperate with injustice. And they listened. They did not spend their days condemning the cruelty around them, though they knew it well. They spent their days saving lives. They focused not on the perpetrators but on the vulnerable. Not on judgment but on service. Not on fear but on courage. They lived as if resurrection were already happening. And because of their bravery, many lives were saved.

Easter is the celebration of that serving, saving spirit that resides in each one of us. A spirit embodied by Jesus throughout his ministry. When he told the story of the Good Samaritan, he did not linger on the priest and the Levite who walked by; he lifted up the one who stopped. When he met the woman at the well, he did not dwell on the people who had shamed her; he focused on her dignity and her voice. When he called Zacchaeus down from the tree, he did not define him by his past; he invited him into a new future. Jesus revealed what was wrong in the world not to condemn it, but to show us what could be right.

And so, Easter morning begins with two women who refuse to be bystanders. They go to the tomb. They face the darkness. They show up. And because they show up, they are the first to hear the angel say, “Do not be afraid.” They are the first to see the risen Christ. Their courage becomes the doorway through which hope enters the world again.

This is the invitation of Easter: To build the world Jeremiah imagined, where people plant vineyards again, where joy returns, where communities rebuild what was broken. Easter is the call to live like the villagers of Le Chambon—quietly, courageously, persistently rolling away stones. To feel joy, and to create joy. To see the empty tomb and to be inspired with the power of the gospel. To be the women who bravely ran forward, and, in their courage, found God. 

Lent has ended. Easter has arrived. Christ is Risen!  Christ is Risen! Allelujah!

Now it is our turn.  

Amen