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In his widely-read testimony, Man’s Search for Meaning, famed psychiatrist Viktor Frankl remembered a terrible day during World War II. He was on a work gang, just outside the fences that hid the horrors of Hitler’s infamous Dachau death camp. “We were at work in a trench,” wrote Frankl. “The dawn was gray around us; gray was the sky above; gray the snow in the pale light of dawn; gray rags in which my fellow prisoners were clad, and gray their faces.”

Frankl told how he was ready to die. It was as if the gray bleakness had claws, and each moment they dug deeper and colder into his soul. Why go on? What could be the purpose in “living” if, indeed, he was even still alive at this moment? There was no heaven, no hell, no future, and no past. Only the clutching grayness of this miserable moment.

Suddenly, to his surprise, Frankl felt “a last violent protest” surging within himself. He sensed that even though his body had given up and his mind had accepted defeat, his inner spirit was taking flight. It was searching. It was looking. It was scanning the eternal horizons for the faintest glimmer that said his fleeting life had some divine purpose. It was looking for God.

In a single instant two things happened, says Frankl, that simply could not be mere coincidence. Within, he heard a powerful cry, piercing the gloom, and tearing at the icy claws of death. The voice shouted “yes!” against the “no” of defeat and the gray “I don’t know” of the moment.

At that exact second, “a light was lit in a distant farmhouse.” Like a beacon it called attention to itself. It spoke of life and warmth and family and love. Frankl said that in that moment he began to believe. And in that moment, he began to live again.

“And He Breathed Into Them The Breath Of Life…”
This was the moment, in a different time and context, that we read about today. Jesus had risen from the dead, but that kind of strange thing cannot easily be believed. The disciples still lived in darkness. They still doubted, wondered, and could not wrap their minds around all of the craziness that was taking place, plus the strange stories their friends were telling.

Suddenly Jesus appeared, a glow of light in the middle of their dark doubts and fears. Then Jesus did something strange. John told us that he “breathed on them” (20:21), imparting to his disciples the divine Spirit, and sending them out as his ambassadors, exactly in the manner of which he prayed back in chapter 17, on Thursday night, before the betrayal, arrest, farce of a trial, and horror of crucifixion. Is this, as some have suggested, John’s different version of Pentecost (Acts 2)?

Actually no, it is not. John was very consistent about every detail in his gospel. Remember that on Thursday night, as they sat together in the upper room, eating a meal, Jesus had a lot to say. He told his disciples that they would run from him. He said that he was leaving them. He made it clear that they would be frightened and discouraged, and that the world would threaten them.

But he also said that he would send to them the “Paraclete.” The Holy Spirit, the “Comforter.” When Jesus left the disciples to return to glory, the Holy Spirit would continue to connect them with each other. It would be like heaven’s Wi-fi system, present everywhere. The Holy Spirit would keep them connected to Jesus.

Living Witnesses
In a sense, this was a final expression of the re-creation process that highlighted John’s gospel. Just as Adam only came alive to his life and livelihood at the beginning of time when God breathed into him the divine breath (Genesis 2), so now this tiny gathering of the new humanity could not function until they were divinely enthused in a similar, very literal manner. The Creator who breathed the breath of life into Adam in the first creation breathed the same breath of life into his disciples in this re-creation. The dead of the world were coming back to life!

John ended his gospel with the story of Thomas, who demanded the proof of physical evidence in order to believe this good news. “My Lord and my God!” Thomas exclaimed (20:28). With these words, John finalized the link between the man Jesus and the deity worshiped by Israel in the Old Testament. Though John never gave a nativity story in which Jesus’ miraculous birth was told, here he announced the full and complete incarnation, Jesus was both human (he had physical wounds) and divine (he was worshiped in a manner reserved otherwise only for Yahweh). Thus, Jesus was and is the true Messiah of Israel.

Although Jesus provided Thomas’ requested touch, Jesus commended those others who could become reborn human creatures through faith that was not dependent upon direct experiential contact with Jesus’ physical body. In this, the missionary nature of John’s gospel message was affirmed, for John ended by issuing an invitation to the same trust and belief to all who read it (20:30–31), even though they do not have opportunity to touch the physical features of Jesus.

John is picturing the Body of Christ being birthed. Creation happened at the beginning of time. But the deadly virus of evil penetrated God’s good world. Darkness washed over everything until life seemed gone forever. But now, through Jesus, creation was being reborn. Jesus was the light of the world. Jesus was the light that gave life to all things. And here, in the darkness of this shadowed room, Jesus breathed the Holy Spirit into the disciples, and they rose up the living Body of Christ.

Paul S. Minear served us well when he penned his famous study years ago, Images of the Church in the New Testament. After identifying a variety of what he termed “minor images,” such as “salt,” “letter,” “fish,” “boat,” “net,” “loaf,” and a dozen or so more, Minear went on to focus a chapter each on the “major images” of “People of God,” “New Creation,” and “Fellowship in the Faith.” But all of these were still preliminary to the towering image that drew the rest into itself. If there is one idea about the church in the New Testament, said Minear, that captures the essence of every nod and note and nudge in its direction, it is the grandiloquent concept of “Body of Christ.” Here the rest of the images come together and make sense. Here the whole becomes larger than the parts and inanimate theology puts on flesh and moves.

The body image affirms individuality, while it pulls everyone up into community. There is both independence of self and dependence of organism that stream together into a more comprehensive interdependence. Moreover, the head remains that of Christ, giving shape to the rest of the being as a reflection of divine intentions and purposes. Few theological descriptions are as pervasively significant and as inherently usable as that of the church as the Body of Christ.

Knit Together
Perhaps the greatest expression of what the Body of Christ means is community. In his book on civility, A World Waiting to Be Born, M. Scott Peck mused that community was lacking in our world and hard to recover. Perhaps, because of the time that we are forced to spend with one another at work, we might bring about a little of it there, he said. Maybe even in marriages and families, if we count the true cost of divorce. But Peck was quite certain that community could never happen in churches. After all, he said, community requires that we spend time together and that we choose to work through our differences with one another. But church life in North America, according to Peck, had become another consumerist enterprise with little corners of the Sunday cafeteria serving up differing musical and message morsels to taste, and Christians grazing briefly in politeness before they re-isolated themselves from the threat of community.

This is a harsh assessment, isn’t it? Unfortunately, we fear it might be true. We may be card-holding members of the same congregations, but we are too often not on the same page with one another. Politics divide us. Socio-economic situations separate us. Races split in the church as well as elsewhere in society. Somehow the one Holy Spirit of Jesus does not seem to breathe the same way in all of us.

One of M. Scott Peck’s earlier books, The Different Drum, analyzed community and how it evolved. There are four stages to developing deep community, according to Peck: pseudo community, conflict, chaos, and true community. The first is our surface friendliness in group settings because we are nice people. Most churches are probably at least an expression of this. But bring any conflict, and tensions flare. At this point, according to Peck, we have the options of staying together and working things through or going our separate ways. God and the Bible point in the former direction, but our experientialist society mostly pushes us the other way, because we want pleasure, not pain.

The committed few who grapple with conflict and come out the other side often suddenly experience chaos. We’ve stayed together, but what’s the point? Who’s in charge around here anyway? Who will validate our raggedy band? And without clear lines of authority or comforting leadership, too often “things fall apart,” as Yeats said in his famous poem, “The Second Coming”, and Achebe diagrammed in his 1958 novel, Things Fall Apart.

But if community is a divine gift, something profoundly wonderful can happen to and for those who cling to it, hope, and pray. This beautiful outcome is the church, the Body of Christ, the family of faith, the people of God, the year of jubilee in all of its fullness.

Messiah’s Community
One of my favorite stories about community comes from eastern Europe. In a small town on the edge of a large forest, the main worship center was a Jewish synagogue. Just outside the town stood a monastery, old and run-down, with only five brothers still puttering around grounds too extensive for them to care for.

It had been a great spiritual center at one time, with dozens, sometimes hundred, of monks, seekers, and spiritual men. But that was long ago. The abbot wondered what would happen if another monk died. There seemed to be no meaningful future for the few who remained. Not only that, but these were folks who were not growing old gracefully. When they went into town for supplies, the local shopkeepers sighed. The guys were grouchy and complained about everything. They wanted discounts the sellers could not afford. They expected special treatment, since they were “men of God.” Nobody liked them.

The congregation at the synagogue was aging and shrinking as well. Young people went to the cities for work or school, and they did not come back. The young families became middle-aged, and the middle-agers retired, got old, and died. Two dying communities. Perhaps it was their precarious outlooks that brought the rabbi and abbot together. Over time, they became friends, in part because they seemed to be the final leaders of end-of-life spiritual centers.

Each Friday, before Shabbat began, the rabbi and the abbot would walk for a while in the woods. They would laugh. They would feel the cool breezes and enjoy the songs of the birds.They would also commiserate about the people under their care.

One Friday, when the abbot got to the forest, the rabbi was waiting for him, and rather impatiently. “I have to tell you something,” said the rabbi in nervous and excited tones. “I don’t know really how to say it, but here goes. Last night, the Holy One (blessed be his name) came to me in a vision. He said to me, ‘I want you to give a message to the abbot when you meet him tomorrow. I want you to tell him that one of the brothers is the Messiah.’”

The abbot was dumbfounded. So was the rabbi. The whole vision thing made no sense. For one thing, the rabbi was sure that when Messiah came, he would be a Jew. Certainly, Messiah would not be one of the cantankerous old guys at the monastery. Similar thoughts flowed through the abbot’s mind. He had been worshiping Jesus all his life. Jesus was the Messiah, and none of the men at the monastery was Jesus. This was strange. This was ludicrous. What was going on? The rabbi swore he had seen the vision and that it was true. But how could it be?

When the abbot and the rabbi parted ways after their walk, they were no longer talking. Both were troubled and concerned. Each believed God could speak in visions and dreams. But why this vision? And why bring it to the rabbi instead communicating directly to the abbot? Nothing about this made sense.

The rabbi headed back to the monastery. That evening, when the brothers were gathered for dinner, he decided to tell them about it. “The rabbi told me something very strange today,” he said. “The rabbi had a vision last night. God came to him and commanded him to tell me that one of us here, at the monastery, is Messiah!”

All four brothers stopped eating in mid-bite. All turned to stare at the abbot. No one moved or said anything for a long moment.

Then they began to chuckle ― and laugh ― great belly laughs. Soon they were in tears with hilarity.

When they returned to their small rooms for evening personal devotions, everyone was in a good mood. Chuckle medicine had lifted their spirits.

But then the wondering began. Certainly, the rabbi was wrong. Certainly, Messiah had come long ago. Certainly, none among them was Messiah come again. Of course not!

Yet, what if it were to happen like that? What if Messiah decided to come to earth again? Would Messiah show up here? Could Messiah be found in this place, among these brothers?

The nagging obsessions lingered. It was not the case, of course, but if, if Messiah was to be one among them, who might it be?

Certainly, the rabbi himself would be a good choice. He was, after all, their leader, and their spiritual director. Maybe…

What about Brother Elred? He did not speak much, hardly ever said anything to anyone. But when he sang, it was like the voice of an angel! His face glowed, and all heaven shone around him!

Could it be Brother John? Yes, he was gruff. But he was also kind. Would give you the shirt off his back. He helped everyone anytime.

And what about Brother Joseph…? The musing and the mulling continued long into the darkness.

When dawn broke the next day, the brothers gathered, as usual, for morning prayers. They all looked the same, but it was actually a new group of people. Something happened during the night, and each was now a bit of a different person. Nobody said anything about it, but they began to treat one another with greater kindness. Cross stares and gruffness were gone. There was more smiling, more laughter. Work was finished more quickly and with less complaining.

Even the people in town noticed the change. Shopkeepers no longer feared having the brothers around. In fact, on weekends, some families would pack picnic lunches and head out to the monastery lawns, hoping a brother might come over an join them. Sometimes a brother would sing a song with a child. Sometimes a mother would ask him to pray for her family.

Then, one night, two young men knocked at the abbot’s door. They had been traveling for days, they said. The reputation of this place was wafting out. People knew that these were spiritual men, close to God, strong in faith. The young men wanted to live for a while at the monastery and find out whether they were called to ministry.

Others trickled in, and then the guests, spiritual apprentices, and monks-in-training multiplied. Soon they had to repair old buildings and build new accommodations. Eventually they pushed back the boundaries of the place and reworked the entrance and road in. Some enterprising monks crafted a large arch that welcomed people to this place of grace. It had two words on it: “Messiah’s Community.”

No one ever identified which among the original five brothers was Messiah. In fact, it did not matter. For when they remembered who they were, when they reconnected with Jesus by the Holy Spirit, Messiah lived in and through all of them.

And everyone knew it.