Riding Off Into the Sunrise

This sermon (or a reasonable facsimile) was preached on the Sunday after Easter, April 8, 2018, at Kingsway Baptist Church.  The texts are 1 John 1:1 – 2:2 and Luke 24:13-35. (One is from the Revised Common Lectionary, because Baptists are part of the larger Church; the other is not, because Baptists are free to do their own thing.)


And so we come to the Sunday after:

After the processionals, the baptisms, and the choir anthems are all complete.

After all the Easter dinners have been eaten, all the Easter dresses packed away, all the Easter Eggs found (except for that one you’ll find with the lawnmower in a month or so).

After the pastor has finally consumed enough coffee to start to feel human again. (I think that happened sometime yesterday morning).  Many pastors aren’t even preaching today. In some circles, the Sunday after Easter is only half-jokingly referred to as “National Associate Pastor Sunday.”

But not me. For better or worse, not me.

I like preaching the Sunday after Easter, even if I am stumbling through a post-Easter haze.  In part, I like it because it always strikes me that today is actually closer in mood and expectation to that first Easter. We’re not grieving and trying to piece together the shards of our dashed hopes, as the first disciples were, but nonetheless today is a letdown. We do up Easter  like the original Palm Sunday – and well we should, because Easter is the real triumph.  Still, I find it the discrepancy intriguing if not ironic.

But mainly I like preaching on the Sunday after Easter because a seminal and pressing question hangs over this day: “Now what?”

Truth be told, it’s simply back to business as usual for most of us, most of the time. Except it can’t be. Not really.

Not if we’ve really heard the testimony of the women. Not if we’ve really been to the Tomb and seen for ourselves. Not if we’ve really looked into the gaping mouth of that grave and felt the warmth of life tickling our cheek where there should have been only the chill of death. Not if we’ve really glimpsed the light that shines in the darkness that the darkness does not overcome.

The scenery might all look the same: our neighbours and neighbourhoods; our offices and co-workers. The faces and places of life may not have changed. The roads of our lives may lead to the same places and may be as jammed with traffic as ever. But underneath, all of it is different – fundamentally different – because in all those neighbourhoods, along all those streets, in corporate high-rises, behind humble storefronts – everywhere in this world – the Risen Christ is roaming free.  And this Risen Christ beckons us to do more than see the light of the Empty Tomb; do more than celebrate the mystery and the miracle of what has occurred by God’s grace.

The Risen Christ bids us to respond to the light, to step into the light, to embrace the light.

Seeing the light and responding to the light are two very different things. Seeing the light without responding is like looking out the window at the dawning of a warm, sparkling, beautiful new day at the beach – but choosing to stay in your hotel room, to keep walls and windows between you and the breeze, the sky, the sun. (And as we’ll see next week, the Risen Christ has no respect for walls.)

Jesus calls us to step out into this new dawn, to experience what the light of Easter fosters and reveals, to bathe in this light, to become bearers of this light, agents of this light.

This is the point that the First Epistle of John seeks to drive home: we’re called to walk in the light, not simply to admire it. Yes, it is important to recognize that God is light and in God there is no darkness at all. But once we recognize that reality, once we profess that reality, we are called to reflect that reality in the living of our own lives. Because, First John declares, we cannot with any integrity claim to have fellowship with this God who is light and continue to walk in darkness.

If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true…. (1 John 1:6).

This Easter light must come to dwell in us, to shine through us.

These are the stakes of the Christian pilgrimage. This is the mission of the church: to bear witness to the light and reality of Easter, of the God who is light, and do so with integrity: as witnesses who can and will be believed when we offer our testimony.

So, as a church, as an extension of THE Church, we don’t get to celebrate Christ’s resurrection and then ride off into the sunset because our work here is done – no matter how glorious, intentional, meaningful, well-planned, well-coordinated, and well-executed our celebration of Easter may have been. (And I must say, I’ve celebrated Easter with a lot of churches for a lot of years, and last Sunday here at Kingsway was pretty special.) Even still, that’s just the beginning!

We don’t get to ride off into the sunset. We get to ride into the sunrise – to bathe in the light of this glorious new dawn, to absorb it; to begin a new journey that we didn’t even know was possible prior to Easter morning: the journey from the cross; from the cross into new frontiers of love, grace, and life now that Christ is risen and victorious.

And like any journey, this one unfolds over time: step by step, day by day.

But the good news (always!) isn’t just that the Risen Christ roams free, through the streets, on the expressways, in the alleyways of this world. The good news is that wherever the people whom God loves – loves enough to give God’s only Son – wherever the people whom God loves are, the Risen Christ is to be found. This journey into the light, this process of becoming light, is never a journey we undertake alone or exclusively under our own strength.

This reassuring truth is the beauty that lies at the heart of the story we refer to as “The Road to Emmaus” – the post-Resurrection experience of Cleopas and another, unnamed disciple.

We meet these two companions on a road leading away from Jerusalem after Passover, after Easter – perhaps, for them, one of those ol’ familiar roads. A stranger joins them – and they tell him all about what has taken place, about what happened to Jesus of Nazareth. They even tell him what the women have reported: that Jesus’ tomb is empty.

They’ve heard the news, but they haven’t seen the light much less embraced it. “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel” (Luke 24:21).

So they’re going back to whatever it was they knew before. Except they can’t – because Jesus won’t let them. Because Jesus is roaming free, right there on that very road, right there with them, even though they don’t recognize Him in their midst.

And what does Jesus do? He walks them through it: literally and figuratively. He walks with them as they travel, wrestling with their disappointment and disillusionment. He also walks them through the Scriptures. He lays it out: explains everything they’ve seen, heard, read. He shines new, Easter light on all of it. He helps them start to understand.

Then He breaks bread with them – and that is when their eyes are opened: while they are reunited with Him around the table, in the context of sharing hospitality with Him, a man they thought was a stranger – and an off-putting one at that. A stranger who had rebuked their conclusions. “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” (Luke 24:25).

Still they invited Him in, because it was getting late. We have to wonder: if Cleopas and the unnamed disciples had let Jesus go on, would He have? Would they have missed the revelation they received?

Ultimately, we can only speculate. What we can be certain about is that this willingness to linger, to see the humanity in this stranger, to think after his safety and well-being supplied the setting for Christ to reveal Himself in their midst; created an opportunity for them to see by the light of Easter.

So, now what?  It’s not that we shouldn’t return to business as usual; shouldn’t return to our old, familiar neighbourhoods and offices; our old, familiar routines. We should.  The difference is that we should walk them with the golden light of this new Easter dawn illuminating our steps, and illuminating  the faces of the people we meet along the way.

So, now what?  We must allow Easter to impact how we see and receive the unreasonable client…. The woman with the walker ahead of us in line who is moving so, so slowly …. The man sleeping on the grate in the dead of winter…. The person talking out loud to themselves on the subway…. The neighbour whose political views we simply cannot fathom…. The friends we know and love already…. The strangers we’d prefer not to have to get to know, much less love.  Because the free-roaming, Risen Christ is there with them, with us; in them, in us – if we’re willing to look, and give ourselves time and opportunity to see.

It’s a process, and one that will unfold one step and one day at a time; but it starts with the willingness to step out into the warmth of life that now flows from the Empty Tomb.  To come out from behind our walls.  To absorb as well as see the light of Easter. To carry it with us wherever we go.  To allow the Risen Christ to walk us through: to open our minds and open our eyes.

Today is not the day we ride off into the sunset, and neither is tomorrow. Each new day now becomes a day to ride off into the dawn. Because Easter is a morning, not an evening. Easter is a beginning, not an ending.  The journey is really just getting started.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Eulogy for My Dad

Today marks the anniversary of my father’s death. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of him. It’s been tough at times, especially not being able to share with him the joys of our new life in Toronto  after all of the support he offered me and my family through recent years of struggle. Composing this tribute helped me to process his loss. The many pictures of him that my wife, Kristen, so lovingly framed and hung in our house help, too. Still, even though he lived to see 90, it feels like he left too soon. So, to honour his memory today, I am re-posting the eulogy I delivered at his funeral at First Baptist Church of Winston-Salem, NC.


There is a photo inside the bulletin that I’m sure you’ve been wondering about. I’m fond of incorporating art and photography into worship, though I must to confess I don’t typically distribute blackmail material of this caliber.

But this isn’t a typical day.

My wife, Kristen, is in the foreground along with our children: Ben’s twin granddaughters, Mary and Emma. Yours truly is standing on the right, wearing that glorious, vintage 1970s denim leisure suit and the red, sequined cowboy hat. My brother, Scott, is the one standing on the left, looking like an extra from the set of a Laurel and Hardy movie.

It was taken this past Halloween here in Winston when we all gathered to celebrate dad’s 90th birthday.

Halloween just happens to fall two days prior, and what Mary and Emma were looking forward to more than anything (with the possible exception of dad’s birthday ice cream cake) was the rare opportunity to go trick-or-treating with Scott, whom they affectionately call “Uncle Bubba.”

So we went trick-or-treating and had a ball. The girls were adorable. Mom and dad’s neighbors in Ardmore gave out “the good candy,” and as an added bonus mom and dad decided to tag along.

I wasn’t sure dad would be up to it, but he said he was – and sure enough, Scott and I got to watch in typical amazement as our 90-year-old father more or less kept pace with his seven-year-old granddaughters as they scampered from house to house, up and down the hills and around the bends of the neighborhood. He needed a little assistance on the way back down Birchwood Drive at the very end but that was it.

90-years-old. But not acting like it.

He rarely acted like it.

In fact, Dad celebrated his 89th birthday in Normandy, France, where he not only visited the site of the D-Day invasion; he also climbed all 350 steps of Le Mont-Saint-Michel.

We used to laugh about the fact that dad had a ministry taking “old” people to their doctor’s appointments, even though most of them were younger than he was. Until these past few weeks, dad hardly ever showed his age.

I remember lying in bed that Halloween night filled with gratitude for the opportunity to celebrate this birthday milestone with him in person: hoping that if I ever get see 90 I’m in half that shape and being thankful that he was my father, which hadn’t always been the case.

Even if he didn’t often show it, dad was old. He belonged to a different era than my brother and me. I can remember plenty of nights growing up when I laid in that same bed in that same house thinking very different thoughts about my father.

Dad was 48 when I was born and pushing 51 when Scott came along. Growing up, the age difference between us was more than a challenge at times. We shared certain interests and activities: baseball when I was playing Little League, and later golf – which dad played twice a week until he was about 85.

But for the most part, dad’s Victorian sensibilities and Depression era DNA could not compute the 1980s, especially pop cultural phenomena like Bruce Springsteen and Star Wars.

Dad was fighting WWII when he was 17 – not the video game, the real thing. When I was 17, I was listening to Iron Maiden, playing Dungeons and Dragons, and drinking obscene amounts of Mountain Dew. I once compared trying to bridge the gap between my world and my father’s world to attempting to build the Tower of Babel horizontally. We spoke two very different and distinct generational dialects – dialects that had grown so far apart they were practically different languages. There were times when we simply could not understand each other.

One of the more memorable examples of this non-understanding was the summer vacation where dad wanted us to pass the many hours in the car listening to the complete speeches of Winston Churchill. Thank God for the Sony Walkman!

It took me a number of years to come to terms with who dad was.

But amazing things happen when you finally do grow up. You grow out of the callow arrogance that accompanies adolescence. You realize one day, “Well, I’ll be derned. You know what, I don’t know it all after all.” And even more scandalous: mom and dad know a lot more than I’ve been giving them credit for!

Training for the ministry helped, too. Church gave us a field of common ground we hadn’t had before. Dad was raised a preacher’s kid and faithfully served this First Baptist Church for 58 of his 90 years. Mom and I are pretty sure he did just about everything there is to do in this congregation except sing in the choir and serve on staff – in good times and in bad.

From experience, he knew ministry is hard, and that doing church can be particularly difficult, especially these days when old models are caving, old buildings are crumbling, and old assumptions are failing.

The kind of politics you deal with in church – which is politics spiked with deep religious conviction – has always been a potent cocktail. Add a couple of shots of fear and anxiety, and it becomes corrosive if not downright explosive. We bonded over that shared experience, even though I don’t remember talking about it with him all that much.

I think we just recognized the mud from those familiar trenches on each other’s shoes.

Over the past twenty years or so, I’ve developed a great respect and deep affection for my father. We still didn’t see eye to eye on a good number of issues. (There was a slate of subjects we just left alone). But the more I learned who he was, and reflected on what he had experienced, survived, and accomplished – and the grace, poise, generosity, wit, and vitality with which he accomplished it – the more I marveled.

Whatever he did, he did it with diligence, persistence, and great attention to detail (unless it involved house keeping). And when he gave himself to an organization, a cause, or to you he gave his all – and gave all of himself the best he knew how. He was always there, even if his presence wasn’t always obvious.

And that’s the real reason why I asked for this silly photograph to be printed in the bulletin.

When we returned home last November, we posted this and several other pictures from dad’s 90th birthday celebration on Facebook. Then, this past Friday – the day dad died – this particular photo resurfaced.

If you use Facebook at all, you know that it’s a little bit like a black hole: (1) It has a tendency to suck you in and (2) its algorithms do strange things to the contours of time and space. Kristen, my wife, logged onto Facebook early Friday morning while she was eating her breakfast and this picture popped up in her newsfeed first thing, with a cheesy message that was something like, “Good morning, Kristen! Remember this?” She thought it was hilarious, so she re-posted it. She showed it to me and then to the girls, and we all had a good laugh.

Then later in the day, after Scott called me to relay the news that dad was gone, I looked at it again and had a good cry, because it was only then that I noticed dad sitting at his desk in the background: cap on, jacket zipped, ready to go; patiently waiting for us to finish our shenanigans.

And through the haze of my tears, I thought, “what a serendipitous blessing!” This picture captures perfectly who dad was and how he operated: ready, willing, and not calling attention to himself. Although it must be said dad didn’t always wait patiently – or quietly.

I can still see him looming on Sunday mornings in his coat and tie, getting after us (especially me) as we were unenthusiastically getting ready for church. He wasn’t the least bit shy about reminding me we were leaving in six minutes and time waits for no man. It certainly doesn’t wait for recalcitrant teenagers.

During the week, he used to wake us up for school at 6:00 a.m. sharp by bursting into our rooms with own personal rendition of reveille:

It’s time to get up, it’s time to get up

It’s time to get up in the morning

It’s time to get up, it’s time to get up

It’s time to get up da-da

I think he somehow thought this was amusing to 15-year-olds. It wasn’t. But I have to begrudgingly admit it was very effective. There was no snooze button on Ben Thomason.

So, he may not have always been patient, but dad was always ready.

As a WWII vet, aspects of his punctuality and preparedness were no doubt drilled into him by the United States Navy. But I think dad’s preparedness ran deeper than that basic training. He was a signalman on the USS Wasatch, a command ship for the Pacific fleet. It was his job to send and receive messages in semaphore code to and from other ships. He used flags during the day and lamps at night. (Mom has a postcard that he sent her while they were dating that has a semaphore message sketched out in stick figures that are holding little flags. It’s really sweet).

And while I don’t recall the details, I remember him telling me one time about a situation where a very important message had to go out but the ships he had to relay the message to were about to vanish over the horizon. If they lost visual contact, it would be too late. They wouldn’t be able to communicate for some time, and the situation was urgent. So, dad apparently had some very fast and very accurate signaling to do. There was no room for error.

But he got the message through.

Under pressure like that, in a potentially life or death circumstance, more than training is involved. One’s character and resolve are tested and revealed. And as he would do on many other occasions, dad showed himself to be a man of great integrity.

He wanted things to get done and done right, and I think dad was motivated by a deep sense of responsibility as well as a deep and abiding faith. He had given a lot, and he had received a lot. He wanted to leave the world a better place than when he came into it.

Scott and I may not have always understood his thinking or his motives because, intentionally or not, dad’s attempts at communication felt coded at times – and neither of us had been to signal school. But when we looked and listened carefully, especially over time, it became very clear how much he loved us and how devoted he was to God, to his church, his community, his family, and to so many of the rest of you

As we’ve been sorting through papers this week, Scott has discovered these articles giving advice to older parents on how to provide for their children after their time had come, especially how to ensure they would have enough money for college in the event their time came before their children were grown. Dad had highlight certain things and made notes in the margins. Neither of us ever knew he had been studying this stuff.

We did know he valued education tremendously, and promised each of us all the education we wanted. What we’ve unearthed are some of the foundation stones he had set in place to make good on that promise. And he has made good on that promise

Plus, as dad got even older and Scott and I moved away from home, his attempts at communication actually became a little clearer – at least to me. I wouldn’t have thought it would turn out this way, but dad became the one who overtly worried about us more. He became chattier on the phone. Whenever we were driving down for a visit, he always wanted us to call before we hit the road and he preferred to receive regular updates as to our progress. “Now, let us know when you get to Roanoke, or, “When you get the rest stop outside of so-and-so, give us a call.”   Often he’d just call me us and ask where we were – three or four times.

And when time came for us to pack up and leave, he’d stand in the driveway, watching as we pulled away, and give us the “hook ‘em horns” salute until we crested the hill and he disappeared from the rearview mirror. I always thought was a rather peculiar choice for a Furman devotee. I’m pretty sure another school from another conference has patented that one; but for whatever reason, it became his signature farewell wave.

It was the accumulation of these small but meaningful things that helped me learn and appreciate who he was. And at some point, I came to understand that he loved me and mom and Scott and Krista and Kristen and Mary and Emma and so many others so deeply, regardless of how he may have struggled to show it or I struggled to receive it.

There is perhaps no greater gift in this world than being able to go to sleep at night knowing you are loved, cared for, provided for, and that no matter what – no matter what others might do to you or what you might do to yourself – someone has your back. What I’ve realized this week is that I’ve been able to go to sleep every night of my life with that knowledge, whether I was cognizant of it or not. Because dad had our back. Because he wanted to have our back. Because he loved us. And that’s why he made sure he was always ready; always the sturdy base of the column, never the flashy capital.

Thank you, dad. And well done. You got the message through, to me, your family, your church, and so many others: a message of love and fidelity, which Jesus declared is the only message really worth sending.

Thanks be to God.

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