Parish of St. Ignatius of Loyola; Chestnut Hill, MA
5 April 2015; 10:00 a.m. mass
The Resurrection of the Lord: The Mass of Easter Sunday
Acts 10:34a, 37-43; Psalm 118:102, 16-17, 22-23; Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-9
By now, I trust that 1986 is far enough in the past,
and that three recent World Series championships for the Red Sox
are vivid enough in the present, that I can say here in Boston,
without fear of attack, that I am a fan of the New York Mets.
Ahh, the Mets.
Their last World Series win? 1986 – no need to go into details there.
Their last winning season? 2008 – Barack Obama was still a senator.
The last time the Mets, as part of a promotion, handed out toy trucks on game day
with the logo of the Philadelphia Phillies accidentally placed on them?
That would be 2014.
What can I say? I have a soft spot for loveable losers.
This, combined with the fact that he and I share a first name,
is probably why I have always liked St. Peter.
His highs are wildly high, like when he publicly declares Jesus to be
“the Messiah, the Son of the Living God” (Mt. 16:16),
and his lows are devastatingly low, like when he three times denies
that he even knows who Jesus is (cf., Lk. 22:54-62).
I place the gospel reading we just heard, the same exact one we hear every single year
on Easter morning, among the lows. Why?
Peter loses the foot race to the tomb.
Every. Single. Year.
I know: a Mets fan should be used to such predictable losing,
but I’m not.
I would, however, like to note that the author of this gospel – John –
and the alleged winner of that foot race –
“the other disciple whom Jesus loved” (Jn. 20:2), –
are often thought to be the same person.
I’m just saying….
Call him John, or call him the Beloved Disciple,
whatever name you give him, today he gives us an apparently-puzzling, but, in fact,
profoundly-insightful piece of the Easter story.
Recall the words we just heard:
“Then the other disciple also went in,
the one who had arrived at the tomb first, and he saw and believed.
For they did not yet understand the scripture
that he had to rise from the dead” (Jn. 20:8-9).
The Beloved Disciple and, presumably, Peter, saw and believed the reality before them,
the Empty Tomb;
but they did not understand the Scripture,
the written record of God’s fidelity to God’s people.
This piece of the Easter story is the whole of our story, of the church’s story.
It is first our believing, always our believing, and not our understanding,
that lets us see the Empty Tomb, that place of death, for what it is:
the assurance that Christ is risen, that he is alive.
Like so many other facets of the Gospel, this turns the logic of the world on its head.
In our common usage of the words, believing is something of a second-class citizen
in the world of knowledge; the Junior Varsity squad, kind of like the New York Mets.
Understanding is better, the best, even;
it is the goal, the New York Yankees – I’m sorry, the Boston Red Sox – of knowing.
We believe when we cannot reach that higher bar of understanding,
and once we understand something, there is simply no longer need for belief.
I believe it when a physics professor tells me that e=mc 2,
but is it not preferable that I should study enough physics
such that I can understand it myself?
This is not the point the Gospel is trying to make.
We are not being told that Peter and the Beloved Disciple settled for belief
because they could not quite make it all the way to understanding.
In the Gospel, to believe means to trust, to go all in,
because something simply has the texture, the quality, of being true.
It privileges not one’s gut, but the deepest recesses of one’s heart
as being our most trustworthy barometer of what is real.
This, perhaps, is how the Beloved Disciple earns his title:
because he is loved, because, in return, he loved Christ,
he knew, he believed, that the Empty Tomb was a beginning not an ending.
Today, as beloved disciples ourselves, this invitation to belief in Christ, the Risen One,
gets extended to us.
Indeed, by showing up here this morning, I dare say we have all accepted that invitation,
at least to some degree.
Whether you are here every day, every week,
every once in a while, or only once in a blue moon,
you are here right now,
even if you think that is only because your parents,
or your significant other, or your in-laws made you come today.
You are here with Peter, with the Beloved Disciple,
with generations of Christians before you, staring into the Empty Tomb.
The question is not whether you understand;
it is whether you believe,
whether you trust,
whether you are willing to walk into that tomb,
risking that it could be the deadest of dead ends,
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hoping that it could also be
an insanely unlikely starting point for new life.
Please do not hear me incorrectly:
I am not telling you not to add some understanding to your faith –
I am a Jesuit in the midst of a gradate studies in theology…I think
understanding is just fabulous –
but I am telling you that I think it is first our believing,
always our believing, and not our understanding,
that lets us see the Empty Tomb,
that place of death, for what it is:
the assurance that Christ is risen,
that he is alive.
This is our faith. This is the faith of the church.
And we are proud to profess it, through Jesus Christ, our Risen Lord.
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