My father died about three years ago. As May comes around, the azaleas spring to life, and I remember my father's passing. Just as sure as the tulips and dogwood blossom, my mind wanders back to my dad. Even when I begin to open up to these strange and wonderful stories of Easter, struggling with the notions of recognition and revelation, I think about the last few months of my father's life.
Easter | Easter Evening (Year B)
Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 114; 1Corinthians 5:6b-8; Luke 24:13-49
The story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus is a favorite of mine. I love the image of pilgrims traveling together, struggling to understand tragedy and loss. I love that Jesus enters the story as a pushy traveling companion who sidles up beside them and talks their ears off for the rest of the trip. And I love that it's not Jesus' incisive exegesis of the promises in scripture that open the disciples' eyes to his identity. It is his presence with them at a shared meal
“People must believe what they can,” writes George MacDonald, “and those who believe more must not be hard on those who believe less.” Faith is a gift. We don’t produce it ourselves. We receive it. And we certainly can’t brag about having more of it than other people do.
I am not a particularly confident pastor and preacher. I don't think I am neurotic about it, but I do harbor my own sense of doubt. It's not that the doubt freezes me in place and keeps me from functioning. It's more the kind of doubt that sits off in the corner somewhere, creeping up now and then to poke at me, asking questions like, Does anything you do really make a difference?
by Ron AdamsMay 2, 2011