The fellowship of Easter brunch

 Jesus said to them, ‘Come and have breakfast.’ Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ because they knew it was the Lord. (John 21:12)

My friend, Kevin, sent the 7 a.m. squirrel report from the front porch of his rural home. Apparently, a drippy rain induced them to sleep late today. Here, 160 miles away, golden sun illumines the neighbor’s daffodils, heralding nature’s resurrection, soon to delight us with the renewal for which every heart hopes.

I, however, am still stewing on Kevin’s last note, telling me, with absolutely no rancor, why he and his beloved wife will not be in church on Easter … as they haven’t been regular for years.

It’s a familiar litany. I talk to God frequently, Kevin tells me, in gratitude for the day and to help him do the good that he wills.

But the hypocrisies of clashing egos among the supposedly faithful keep him from the church door, along with the rejection of a gay pastor, loved by some but not all, dividing the congregation, which moves Kevin to think of gay family members and clients he loves and serves.

Then, there is the PTSD (my words, not his) occasioned by hearing songs or words that transport them back to their 16-year-old son’s funeral, killed in a terrible car crash. And I get it. I’ve seen trauma do that before.

All of this moves me to love my friend more than ever because I feel a great and deep heart beating in his chest. But there’s one more thing: Part of me identifies with him because—after serving the church for more than 40 years as a pastor, journalist and spiritual director—I won’t be in church this week either.

It’s not that I have lost my faith. Far from it. I hold the faith of the church, the faith of Jesus the Christ, deep and dear in my heart where Christ lives and breathes in the great love I feel for him and all creation. I cherish and hunger for his divine presence more than ever in my life.

But when I participate in corporate worship, as I have a number of places since retirement, I find little space—and certainly no home (at least, not yet)—for my hunger to feel, know and share the joys and sorrows, the struggles, doubts, elation and mystery of being a vessel of Christ. I long to be among a people where reverence, praise and expression of God’s boundless love for everyone is central, trumping everything else.  

Years ago, one of my spiritual directees said he wanted to be a member of ‘the fellowship of the Sunday brunch.’ He spoke partly in jest, but mostly not.

His suggestion sparks the image of a few friends or fellow travelers gathering around a table to share food and talk about their lives. What gave them life or joy or hope that week? What are they reading or seeing that moved them to see differently or understand something anew? Who moved them to love or joy or anger or sadness? How is what is happening in the world affecting them?

The Spirit blows where it chooses, Jesus said. You hear the sound of it, but where it goes and why, well, that’s a mystery. I have no doubt, however, that the Spirit of Christ’s living love would be more than pleased to warm a few hearts and console wounded souls at the fellowship of the Sunday brunch.

And I know, absolutely know, I have felt the Spirit of the One who is Life and Love at cafe tables and sickbeds, in living rooms, my favorite Irish pub and a host of other places where human hearts cracked opened just enough to share a morsel of what is actually there, the heaven and hell of being human.

It's interesting to me, and telling, I think, that several of Jesus’ resurrection appearances happen over sharing food. Jesus breaks bread and eyes are opened to his presence. Or, he cooks fish on a rocky beach and invites his old friends to breakfast and nobody asks whether it is Jesus whom they are experiencing.

There is no need. They know … because they feel the loving life of the Spirit in the mystery of their own hearts.

All of this awakens a desire to join Kevin on his front porch to watch the squirrels … and talk. I have every reason to expect Easter can happen there … just as well as anywhere else.

David L. Miller

 

 

Simple truth

Jesus answered, ‘For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.’ Pilate asked him, ‘What is truth?’ (John 18:37a-38)

My friend, Kevin, tells me he has become the archetypal old man. Every morning, he sits on his porch with a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and watches the squirrels wake up, while thinking about the past.

I wonder what he sees there. Next time, I’ll ask. This morning, the question rebounds to me, and an answer springs to technicolor life in my mind’s eye, a familiar scene, decades old, telling my heart what I have lost and most want for the stretch of life that lies ahead.

One word: Simplicity. I hunger for the simplicity of heart that was mine when I was nine or 10 or 11, running across the elysian fields of the old fairgrounds near my childhood home.

Heaven was chasing my cocker spaniel across the emerald expanse, dandelions sprouting across the meadow, as Blondie ran, her toenails ripping through the grass, eluding my grasp at every turn.

And I laughed. I laughed at her joy, swept up in the rapture of running free alongside and far behind, unrestricted and unrestrained, feeling the exhilaration of being alive in a wide and open space where no one cared if I laughed or shouted or prayed or sang at the top of my voice, songs from the radio, others from church.

Those fields are the reason I love the stories of Jesus’ early ministry so much. I can see him as he walked through grassy fields with his friends, their palms running across the top of tall grasses, plucking the heads of wild oats and eating them, talking, asking questions, stopping on a hill to gaze at the waters of the Sea of Galilee, as the bluffs of Bashan paled to pink miles across the water in the late afternoon sun.

I see them as people brought their children, and Jesus held them in his arms, loving them, blessing them, as he raised his eyes to the heavens praising the Loving Mystery for the song of birds, the yellow of flowers and the tenderness of open hearts.

But that was then. Now, Holy Week is upon us; darkness settles in. The warm sun of open fields is lost behind thick clouds of threat and gloom. The joy of beginnings flees like a dream at the break of day, leaving only the nightmare. The air bristles with anger and intrigue. Jesus is no longer a free soul on the hills of Galilee. Sadness settles on his soul as furtive eyes surround him, waiting their time. He is but a political problem, a pawn passed from one authority to another, each seeking an expedience to be rid of him.

Night has come, and Jesus stands before his accusers, silent, but for this. ‘I came into the world to testify to the truth,’ he says.  And I ask the same question as Pontius Pilate, ‘What is truth?’

I don’t know whether he spoke with a sneer or with faint hope that Jesus might say a little more, wondering against all odds that there might be an answer to the question.

But Jesus just stands there, silent, for truth allows no words. Truth is what filled me on the fields of my childhood. Truth is what swept my heart to tears and songs and prayers and joy as love for life filled me from a Source that I did not then and never will comprehend.

Truth is the divine smile that delighted in my play and warmed me whole as I ran with my dog. Truth is the Love who filled me with graced awareness that this Love, this Great Mystery, is real and knowable, and that my laughter was the greatest praise I could ever return.

The simple truth is Jesus, the face of the Loving Mystery who forgives his enemies, blesses those who curse him, prays for those who kill him, and still has time to find young boys on the fields of their play. (Girls, too, I’m sure).

It may be that I was closer to God at 10 than any time since. My heart was simple then, and I knew … the truth that matters most.

David L. Miller