A sermon for Faith Lutheran Church, Marion
Scripture: Luke 24:36-48
In the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus appears to the whole
crew of disciples, he asks for something to eat, and I don’t believe for an
instant that it was a coincidence that the disciples give him a fish. You may
recall that in the Gospel of John, Jesus appears to the disciples on the shores
of the Sea of Galilee, telling the disciples to cast their nets on the other
side of the boat, while he waits on the shore, cooking—you guessed it!—fish.
If
you trace the fish through scripture, you will find that they are there in the
beginning—in the Genesis creation story; they are killed off in the plagues in
Exodus; and they are extolled in the Psalms. Ezekiel was certainly into fish as
that book mentions them in three separate contexts; and then of course we have
Jonah, the biggest of fish. But it is in the life and ministry of Jesus that
fish come to the forefront. Fish are mentioned 32 times in the Gospels—from the
feeding of the 5000 to the disciples who left their boats to follow Christ. It
is little surprise that the fish has become a symbol of Christ—and that Greek
word, “Ichthys,” has entered our popular lexicon as a Christian term and
acrostic, meaning “Jesus Christ, Son of God. Savior.”
My ears perk up when I hear about fish in the Bible for another reason: I love to fish. From long days casting for muskies up on Lake of the Woods to slow days jigging for walleyes, casting spinners for perch; and even shore fishing for carp and catfish or leaving traps for minnows. I love to wonder about what is in the water and to discover a little more of that unseen world. But the fishing I love more than any other involves casting a fly in a clear river in search of one of God’s most precious and most fragile creatures: the trout.
I
believe that there is a reason why these two very distinct encounters with
Jesus after the resurrection both involve fish. Fish connect us back to the
garden. They are dependent on the water—they shape ecosystems—they remind us
that every action has repercussions downstream. And they are beautiful. Lastly,
and I think this is especially evident when you fish for trout, they teach us
what it looks like to rise. And that is a thing of beauty.
At
Ewalu, we have trout—stocked rainbow trout and stream-reared brown trout—that
inhabit the Maquoketa River as it flows through camp. But more importantly, we
have campers who stand atop our A-Frame Bridge and stare down into the waters
where a sandbar deposit upstream has carved a pool where fish wait for flies
and larva and other little creatures to be swept downstream. There, our campers
spy trout at all times of the year at all times of the day. Occasionally, if
they are lucky, the fish are rising and slurping flies off the surface of the
water. I have watched kids and adults alike stand transfixed on that bridge, as
seconds turn to minutes and minutes approach hours. There is something about
the trout that is holy.
To
that point, there is something about those campers meeting the trout that is
drenched in God’s grace. They find themselves in the waters. One of the
favorite activities of our campers is creek stomping in that Maquoketa River.
They walk the sandy, rocky bottom and find crayfish and minnows, tracks of
racoons and deer, while eagles and hawks hover overhead. They feel the cold
rush of an unseen spring bursting through the rock. And they play. And play.
And play in those waters. Then, they retreat with their cabin group and open
the Bible to hear about the fish and rivers, and those stories come alive in a
way they never have before.
This
is the gift of camp.
The
Bible was not meant to be read in churches—or at least our churches have to go
out of their way to create spaces that feel outdoors with lofty ceilings,
stained glass, and scenes of nature painted on pillars or projected on
televisions. The Bible also was not written to be read primarily in our homes.
It is a book that was intended to be experienced under the open skies. So many
of our kids—and indeed our adults as well—have so little to do in the outdoors
any longer that we risk disconnecting ourselves from the world that God told us
was created good and that God commanded us to steward—to guard and protect.
* * *
There
was a social media post from the ELCA this past week about the solar eclipse.
Now, you should know that I love my church, which is why I am so willing to
make fun of it, but here was this social media post with members of the
churchwide office huddled together on this narrow walkway with Bishop Eaton and
a couple other people looking at the eclipse while others are looking down or
at their phones, and everybody appears as if this was the only sunlight they
were likely to see for the foreseeable future. The caption explained, “Some
members of the Churchwide staff stepped outside to experience the solar eclipse
in Chicago.” It certainly gave me the impression that the work of the churchwide
office is almost exclusively indoor work, and only occasionally do we venture
outside.
It is
worth noting that in the Gospel of Luke, Jesus Christ appears first to the two
disciples out on the road to Emmaus, then finally to the rest of the disciples gathered
in Jerusalem. This follows a common theme: Jesus comes to us first and foremost
out in the world and secondly wherever we are gathered together. But in each
and every case, he is revealed in food and drink, water and wine, bread and
fish—physical signs, reminders of our dependence on God and the natural world.
Of
course, it is like this. After all, Jesus Christ rose from the grave not in a
spiritual sense but physically, viscerally, actually risen. It can be easy to
make this all very abstract—a theoretical faith in a spiritual God—but the
reality of the incarnation—of God coming to us as a human being, dying, and
rising—is that we worship a God who has done what we will one day do; namely, die
and rise. And not spiritually but physically, truly, actually live anew—and not
to a higher spiritual plane as a kind of ghost, but to a new creation as real
and tangible and even more beautiful than this one—in fact, the new creation is
this one but changed—the earth as it was created to be.
At
Ewalu, we see what happens when kids encounter God in the world. Many experience
the Word of God come alive for the first time under the skies at Ewalu. This
Jesus Christ who comes to the disciples first outside on the road, then in
community comes to us again and again as we strive to be both: An outdoor
ministry formed around a community of faith.
My
hope for you this morning is that you see the value in Ewalu, but also that you
understand you are part of this work already, whether you have ever sent kids
or grandkids to camp, and whether you yourself have been to camp yourself or
not. You are part of this good work because you are part of the church—part of
Faith Lutheran—and we do this work together—for kids and young adults, but also
increasingly often we include older adults who need to reconnect with that side
of their faith. We’re never too old for God to meet us on the way.
Regardless
of whether Ewalu has been or will be that place for you, I hope you have a
place to retreat to—to get out of the echo chambers we create for ourselves
cloistered in our comfortable spaces—and instead to enter the unknown alongside
a community who cares for us. Ewalu is one of many sacred playgrounds where
this happens. Each of you may have a unique place where the Word of God comes
alive and where Christ has met you on the way. I hope you do, because this
story keeps happening. It happens every summer at camp, and it happens in
quilting rooms, and in deer stands, and on the golf course, and in the garden.
Christ meets us where we meet the world—just like he did with those disciples,
asking for a fish.
I
have to believe that God is pleased with all fish, but especially trout, who
live their lives in one world but are always watching and waiting for manna
from the heavens, and when a fly lands on the water, they rise, and as they do,
they break through from one world to the next, permeating the barrier between
the known and the unknown. They are just being little Christs—rising toward
eternity—and showing us the way. It’s no wonder they inspire so much wonder.
For just as the running water beckons us back to the garden, the trout show us
the way forward—rising with Christ—as Jesus did for us.
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