Homily from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour

Todays sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on Easter 3B; April 14, 2024

“Jesus 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.’”  ~an excerpt from Luke 24:36b-48 

It’s noteworthy that what most frightens Jesus’ disciples is that he’s risen.  
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Crucified, dead and buried they can handle; but risen is another story.   In fairness, they don’t have almost 2,000 years of retelling and discussing the story of Jesus’ resurrection behind them to help make sense of their experience of the risen Christ.  Their whole world view is suddenly and completely altered in the moment they accept that crucifixion need not kill love; when they realize that love can survive death itself, thriving so vitally that it can be touched and seen.  It’s that real, that present….that human.  That’s what scares them.  

We do have almost 2,000 years of retelling the story to help us make sense of our experiences of love.  Yet, love’s presence often frightens us, as well.  So does death.  How do we internalize this story that stands at the center of our Christian faith?    How, if at all, does this idea of the risen Christ impact our lives? We, too, can handle the crucified, dead and buried part; we know that reality.  But risen?  We may know the reality of temporary redemption; but full-time, permanent, victory-o’er-the-grave resurrection is another matter.  Isn’t it? 

It wasn’t for Nedra Lawler.  For Nedra, experiencing temporary redemption is the way the living can touch and see victory-o’er-the-grave resurrection.  Nedra wouldn’t put it quite like that, though.  She’d tell you a story and let you draw your own conclusion, because as she’d say, “that’s what you’re gonna do anyhow.”  

She’d have made a great preacher; well, she was a kind of preacher.  Her pulpit was the lunch counter at Gray’s Pharmacy in Norfolk.  She’d been the waitress there for more than 30 years by the time I was old enough to climb up on the bar stool for one of her cheeseburger, French fries and malted milk specials.  As kids, most of us first heard Nedra’s stories while in the company of our mothers.  My mother would sometimes go out of her way to have lunch at Nedra’s counter if she needed advice or a listening ear.  A visit with Nedra always seemed to brighten her outlook.   

My mother’s faith had no room or need for the kinds of questions that others may find essential.  Jesus’ resurrection was an undisputed fact of faith for mother.  But connecting the facts of her faith with the experiences of her life became increasingly challenging for mother after her mother died. Months after grandmother’s death, mother was still emotionally paralyzed by her grief.  The minister, neighbors and church friends had all been by to cheer her with frequency, but her despondency seemed intractable.  Finally, her physician, Dr. Hayes, prescribed an anti-depressant, which she never took. But filling the prescription at Gray’s Pharmacy gave mother the occasion to have lunch at Nedra’s counter and Nedra was what Dr. Hayes would’ve prescribed had he known the outcome.  Grandmother died in the first week in June and it was now late August as mother and I sat across the counter listening to Nedra say, “Your mama’s dying hit you real hard now, didn’t it.  ‘Minds me of the way I felt when ole White died.”  Mother inquired as to the identity of “ole White” and sniffed a little upon learning that her mother was being compared with a nag plough horse. 

“Nedra, I don’t think it’s quite the same,” she said stiffly.  Nedra, on the other hand, was insulted that mother didn’t properly value ole White and with one hand on her hip and a waving spatula in the other, sputtered back, “Now you listen here, that horse was like a mama to me; when she passed my world got so small there was hardly enough air in it for me to breathe.  Thought my heart would bust it was so full of hurt.   Nothing felt real anymore; it was like the whole world was made of cardboard.  My life had stopped; but the world kept going.  If I coulda whomped up the energy I’d a yelled at folks for going on as if ole White’s passing didn’t matter.  But as it was, I couldn’t do much of anything, ‘cept sit and cry.  Even when my tears quit running down my face, they were still there crying on the inside of me. Thought  I’d like-to-never get right.”  Suddenly mother was nodding vigorously and her lower lip was trembling, and it became clear that ole White and grandmother maybe weren’t so different after all.  Mother sipped at her malted milk to regain her composure and then said softly, “How did you get right, Nedra?”  It was an E.F. Hutton moment.  Folks at the counter who’d been politely pretending not to listen, suddenly looked up so as not to miss Nedra’s answer, which she spoke with deep tenderness, “Never did get over it, honey.  That’s how come I can touch your heart now.”  Mother said she was hoping for a different outcome for her own grief, but Nedra pointed at mother with her spatula again saying, “If the wound is deep enough it’ll rise again; that’s resurrection, honey.”   Mother stiffened again, “I hope you’re not comparing the resurrection of Jesus with a dead horse, beloved though ole White may have been.”  Nedra laughed so heartily that her large belly jiggled with pleasure, “Well, I don’t know what they teach at your church, but what they teach at mine is that resurrection is an everyday thing.  Deep wounds rise again; and when they rise, there He is, saying, ‘I’m still here; love isn’t dead.’  Now that’s resurrection, if you see what I mean.  You gotta look for the love, honey, but it’s there. It won’t bring your mama back, but it’ll soothe the pain of  the wound.”  For the first time in months, mother’s face crinkled into a smile.  “Thank you, Nedra,” was all she said, but Nedra knew she meant to say more, and patted mother’s hand saying, “Good to see you back.” 

“Jesus 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.’”   

May we look for resurrected love whenever our deepest wounds surface; and may we touch one another’s wounds, when they are visible, so that together we might give witness to the risen love in our midst.