you-are-witnesses-of-these-things

While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.

Then he said to them, ‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.

 (Luke 24:36-48)(231)

It begins with two people telling their story; ‘we were on the road…a stranger joined us…our grief was transformed; our eyes were opened – It was JESUS!’

Their story is linked to another story – a shared experience that, for many in their audience, is tinged with that same grief. The recall how ‘…he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.’ (Luke 24:35). Connections are made; excitement begins to build – and suddenly, there was Jesus.

The presence of Jesus is celebrated by this story (and many stories in Scripture) and in the way of all mysteries, the story telling seems to establish the presence of Jesus. And that two-way relationship is crucial to the church and in the world; No stories without ‘presence’; no presence without story.

Jesus’ presence stirs up strong emotions. The disciples question their senses. In this encounter, there is no joyous proclamation of faith; instead, Jesus reminds them of his story, and invites them to tell it; “You are witnesses of these things.”

To be a witness is a rare privilege. To experience history being made is a challenging thing. Witnesses don’t always recognize the significance of what is happening, and that is what stories are for. The stories we tell help unravel the meaning of events; our stories connect others to significant moments in our lives. Relationships are built of stories shared, adapted, and treasured. This is where we met. These were our challenges. Here is our joy.

If you listen closely, every conversation you have – whether it is with a store clerk, your neigbour or a family member – is an attempt to tell part of an individual’s story. For many of us, our story is the essential ingredient in every conversation. But our story-telling takes on a certain urgency when we are grieving.

Funeral rituals are built on story-telling. In the Christian tradition, the story of the life of the deceased is told from multiple perspectives: we share how that life mattered to each of us, and we consider how that life was affected by the grace, mercy and love of God. The mark of any faith tradition is in the consideration of how and where the sacred and the secular meet – not just at the beginning or end of life, but throughout all of life. So we – and all people of faith - are best equipped to tell the story of this tumultuous time.

What story will we tell? What story can we tell in the midst of this strange and grief-ridden time? We have the ability to create chaos or generate hope with the way we tell our ‘pandemic’ stories. We can acknowledge our uncertainty with outrage or compassion; we can focus on our bitterness, or we reach for grace. Our tone makes a difference. The presence of hope makes a difference.

We can complain about what we have lost, missed, or otherwise left behind, or we can celebrate the new opportunities for intention and direction that are being presented to us every day. We can offer selfish soliloquies on how things used to be – or we can choose to be creative, and make different connections with one another and with the world at large. Our stories, and especially the way we tell them, will make a big difference in how – or if - we emerge from our grief.

Jesus’ friends were grieving. Confused and afraid, they had an encounter with the risen Jesus – the master story-teller – the Word made flesh. And suddenly, their hearts ‘burn within them,’ and they are desperate to continue telling the story…the story that brings life.

The resurrection is, in this sense, all about telling the story. The presence of Jesus may not depend on our story-telling, but that presence is affirmed – brought from the shadows into the light – whenever someone says “Christ is Risen, he is risen indeed!”

In the midst of a story of terror and treachery, Jesus appears in triumph. What will we make of the story currently being written by us – for us – about us…?

We can choose to tell only the desperate part of the tale (Christ has died) and abandon the hope that is our inheritance as children of God, or we can remember that we cannot say “Christ is Risen” without first acknowledging that Christ has died. The best parts of the story keep company with the worst parts – they are not different stories, but part of the same, continuing story. And we must remember that this small slice of human history – a period of so much change and so much anxiety and so much grief – is just another paragraph in the story of God’s story.

The best of times and the worst of times (with apologies to Mr Dickens) are never so far apart as we would like. Our faith is built on the terrifying nearness of tragedy and triumph. And the gospel story is meant to put all of our challenges in proper perspective.  The journey from grief to joy is made possible by hope – and hope is at the heart of our faith.

Our mission is to tell the story – to bear witness to hope; to speak the truth in love; to acknowledge, even in our grief, that the light shines in the darkness. Praise God, the darkness will never overcome us.