Now I would remind you, brothers and sisters, of the good news that I proclaimed to you, which you in turn received, in which also you stand, through which also you are being saved, if you hold firmly to the message that I proclaimed to you—unless you have come to believe in vain. For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time, most of whom are still alive, though some have died. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me.  ~ 1 Cor. 15:1-8

There are some problems in the Corinthian faith community. Actually, there are a lot of problems, a lot more than Paul reveals in this little section. The church is mired in conflict. If you read the entire first letter Paul writes to this church he helped to found (and we are going to read passages from it for the next three Sundays after today), you will find that the people are at odds over:

~ sexual immorality (a relationship between a man and his mother-in-law: chapter 5);

~ whether or not it is ok to eat meat that was used in sacrifices to pagan idols (chapter 8);

~ the problem of class divisions as they are played out at the celebration of the Lord’s Supper (chapter 11);

~ who exactly are the most “gifted” Christians; what gifts are the most important for sharing with God’s people? (chapters 12-14);

~ and what the people believe about resurrection (chapter 15).

These are not insignificant issues. They go to the very core of the identity of the faith community. But Paul chooses to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start): he begins with the sacrament that is our entry to life in the church. He begins with baptism.

Arguing. Fighting. It’s everywhere, and it starts early. First, it’s about who gets to play with the new set of pretty-colored blocks at the preschool, or which toys are mine only and which I have to share. Eventually it’s about who gets picked when choosing sides for teams, and then who gets picked to be Yearbook editor, or who gets in the starting lineup. Eventually we are arguing over everything from parking places to immigration reform, from who can use which bathrooms to who can be made to produce birth certificates. And, inevitably, it cycles back to what I get to claim as mine and what I have to (or should) be willing to share...

So many people, and communities—here, and everywhere—could really, really use a miracle. Every week people come to worship—here, and at all kinds of houses of faith—feeling their brokenness. The fragility of their human bodies. The fear of their diagnosis. The persistence of their grief. The reality of their addiction. The weight of their history. Every week, we show up. Many of us could use a miracle.

But it seems sometimes as if this is no longer an age of miracles. We place our hope in prayer, of course, but also in medicine, in therapy (physical and otherwise), in diet and exercise and sheer willpower. And we hope. We hope and we hope. But, in a certain way, I think we don’t dare hope for a miracle...

The Easter story as we heard it last week left us on the edge of our seats, trying to imagine together: What happened next?

Our passage this morning attempts to pick up where we left off...

As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here." ~Mark 16:5-6

While they were eating, he took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to them, and said, “Take; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it.  He said to them, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. ~Mark 14:22-24

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2 There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 3 Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.  ~John 12:1-3

Here’s the real reason I don’t much like Daylight Savings Time: In a life which already feels quite full, and as if I don’t have time to do all the things I should do, and want to do, the spring time change contributes to my sense that time is running out. Daylight savings time taps me on my sleeping shoulder, and says, “You have even less time than you think.”

Which, if you think about it, is pretty much what Jesus is saying today.

So faith comes from what is heard, and what is heard comes through the word of Christ.

~ Romans 10:17

It began when he was so little he couldn’t remember the first time. But there it was: his mother, singing to him. She had a small voice, with a light, smooth sound, and he realized with some embarrassment much later that he had always associated it with angels. How childish. But still. Well into his teens, at least, the memory of being held in her arms while she crooned him some song or other could bring him to a sense of well-being few other things could match.

Jesus is approached by someone he has been fighting with, and suddenly, they agree on something.

This is a first. Jesus has been fighting with just about everybody, from the Pharisees to the Sadducees, to the Priests, to the Elders, to the Scribes. And it’s understandable that they’ve been fighting, really. The things they care about are just too important. They matter. They are matters of life and death.

But now, a scribe approaches Jesus. (The scribes, when last seen, had walked away and sent someone else to start fighting in their place.) And now, they agree. Completely...

Here’s the problem with this question. Any answer Jesus gives is potentially deadly for him. If he says, “Yes, the taxes are legal,” Jesus “sides” with the hated Roman Empire, and loses the goodwill of the people. If he says “No, don’t pay the taxes,” Rome has the grounds for crucifixion: Jesus has engaged in an act of sedition.

When I was expecting my son I read about the eyes of babies, and how they develop. The eyes of newborns focus at a distance of between 8 and 15 inches, which just happens to be the distance between the baby’s eyes and the face of their parent, who is holding, or nursing, or bottle-feeding, or simply looking adoringly at that beloved face. Babies learn to see and focus by looking at loving faces that are looking back at them.

Isn’t that a wonder.

How do we learn to focus our eyes on God?

Enter Bartimaeus. He is blind. He is a beggar. His story is the closing bookend to the big passage, the traveling and teaching passage. And, while he cannot see Jesus, he can very much hear Jesus. And he can very much speak to Jesus. Which is to say, yell. A lot. Loudly. So loudly and insistently that his friends are hushing and shushing him and trying to get him to calm down, go away, be quiet, be docile. But he will not. He insists...

It is through touch that we are connected to one another. It is through touch that we experience our common humanity. And it is through touch that we learn what it is to be connected to God.

That’s the leap, right there. Do we believe, truly, that everything we are, and everything we have, is God’s? Do we believe that giving, even, in God’s name, for God’s purposes, is something we are truly called to do? This is one of the most profoundly challenging areas of spiritual growth any of us will ever engage in, because it cuts to the heart of a culture that is telling us exactly the opposite—that the accrual of wealth is our goal, that the one who dies with the most toys wins, and that we are all on our own, full stop.

What, I wonder, could children have to teach us about welcoming Jesus?

There are many things, I think. But for today, for this reading, I want to focus on children’s ability to be present—to be wherever they are, really, really present. Awake. Experiencing things. Understandably, when things are painful, we aren’t so interested in experiencing them. I get that, and I do that. But the disadvantage to going away is that life ticks by… this terminal diagnosis runs its course… and there is a chance we have spent much of it not actually being alive. Not actually smelling the fragrance of a bonfire or a hyacinth, not actually feeling the weight and fuzz of a ripe peach in our hand, not actually hearing the complexity of sound created by the bow being drawn slowly across the string of a cello, not actually seeing the 25 different shades of pink and purple in a particular sunrise, not actually tasting the grain and the yeast and the honey and the orange peel that make up this piece of bread, right here, right now...

Jesus has become incredibly well-known—rock-star Jesus—and now, with his name on the tongue of people in power, dangerous people who very reasonably and correctly see Jesus as a threat to their power, Jesus turns to his people, and asks a pointed question:

“Who do people say that I am?”

Some names were floated last week; now we hear them again.

John the Baptist.

Elijah.

One of the prophets.

I imagine Jesus nodding, and pacing before he asks the next, even more incisive question:

“But who do you say that I am?”

This is Peter’s big moment...