I like to fly. I enjoy the convenience of being able to travel to my local airport and then in just a matter of hours end up in a completely new and different place. In recent years I have become quite good at being able to pack everything I need for a trip in my carry on, checking in for a flight on my phone ahead of time, and then arriving at the airport at precisely the right time to make my way through security and walk up to the gate with only a few minutes to wait until boarding. I’m aware that cutting things close in this way can be anxiety-producing for some travelers, but it works for me.

It became my routine throughout the last three years, as roughly once every quarter I would fly between the Love Field airport in Dallas and the Midway Airport in Chicago for a long-weekend trip to hang out with my brother, who up until this last month was in grad school at the University of Chicago.

But, this year has been different. I haven’t flown since the end of last year. I have a credit on my account from the trip I was scheduled to take right after Easter, and I never even bought the plane ticket for his graduation in June. In addition, I was scheduled to fly at the end of March to come and meet with some of our church leaders as my appointment was being considered, and I had planned to take the four hour flight instead of the three day drive when I made the move from Texas to Portland just a couple of weeks ago.

Now, friends, let me say that in the grand scheme of things, these are minor inconveniences compared to what others in our community and in our world have faced in this season, but throughout these last months we have all had many of our favorite routines disrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic. We have all watched as the familiar has slipped away right before our eyes. And, we have all experienced with the fullness of our minds, bodies, and senses as the world around us has changed and transitioned at speeds we never thought possible.

However, as wise people have said many times over, “there is nothing new under the sun.” This kind of change and transition had happened before.

They had been with him for some time: traveling, listening, helping, and healing. Each of them had a vidid memory of that particular day—that day when in an instant their lives changed—that day when he came up to them at their fishing boats, their crafting table, their tax booth, and the other places where they lived, worked, and made their living. They had never met or heard of him before, but on that day he walked up to them, and it was as if, with the core of their being, deep inside, they knew each other oh so closely. He said their name: Peter, Andrew, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus, and Judas. And, after saying their name, he said a simple phrase, “Come, and follow me.”

They went without hesitation, dropping their fishing nets, their tools, their pens and their notebooks. They went first throughout Galilee, stopping in every synagogue they passed. He would make his way up front in order to teach, and a crowd would always gather to hear what he had to say about God’s kingdom—that place where the lives of the poor and the oppressed mattered, that place where power and privilege entitled a person to nothing, because there was already a seat at the table for everyone and the king’s throne room wasn’t in a palace somewhere up above but was instead in the streets, moving with and among the people.

The good news about this kingdom spread far and wide, from Galilee, to Judea, and even into the great city of Jerusalem. The crowds kept growing everywhere they went.

As they traveled in-between towns, villages, and cities he would share with those twelve whom he had called. He told them about the Magi who came at his birth, to attest to God’s kingdom even before he could speak. And, he told them about his first day on the job, the day when he was baptized by his friend John in the Jordan, and the heavens opened up, and a voice from up above called him beloved.

Many of them remembered that one day with the large crowd gathered around him upon the mountain top. It was one of his longer sermons by far, but the crowd was captivated by every word. It began with a blessing, but one they had never heard before. He said that hopeless, grieving, humble, and all kinds of other unexpected people were blessed. He talked about loving one’s enemies, turning the other cheek, and how to properly fast.

From there, things continued as they had been, more teaching, more crowds, more healing, more surprises, like calming a storm. But this day was different. He gathered them together, just them. He began by talking in abstraction saying, “The size of the harvest is bigger than you can imagine, but there are few workers. Therefore, plead with the Lord of the harvest to send out workers for the harvest.”

They thought to themselves, whispering to each other, “Jesus, what in the world are you talking about? We’ve been traveling around the countryside, meeting new people, healing some of them, listening to your great and not at all too long sermons. We aren’t farmers. Not once have we picked up a shovel or planted a seed.”

He sensed their confusion and heard the whispers from under their breaths. And then, with the same familiarity as from that first particular day, embedded in each of their memories, he called them by name. But, this time the instructions were different. He didn’t say, “Come, follow me.” Instead, he told them to go.

They hadn’t quite realized it yet, but they were never simply along for the ride. The work they had seen him do, the teaching he shared with the crowds, the stories he told as they walked weren’t simply for them to store in their memories or to make for great social media posts. It was so that the work could continue through whatever might come, and that through every change, through each new season, the announcement might continue to be made to anyone who would listen, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”

It was time for their routine to be disrupted, time for them to put what they had learned into action, time to test and see how closely they had paid attention. It was time for a slight change and transition, because he knew that an even bigger change was coming soon, and after it there would still be good news to share. In fact, he knew that change was and is always inevitable; nevertheless, in the midst of every transition, there is always good news to share; in the midst of change and transition it remains the case that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

Friends, like those first disciples and followers of Jesus, we find ourselves in the midst of great change in our world, in our communities, and even in the church. This change wasn’t initiated entirely by the coronavirus pandemic, but the pandemic has almost certainly expedited it.

In her book, The Great Emergence: How Christianity Is Changing and Why, one of the great historians and scholars of the church, Phyllis Tickle describes the change that the church seems to experience roughly every five hundred years. The Great Schism at the end of the first millennia, The Great Reformation of the 1500s, and now what scholars are calling The Great Emergence that we seem to be living. She writes of the Great Emergence:

“As a phenomenon, the Great Emergence has been slipping up on us for decades in very much the same way spring slips up on us week by week every year. Though it may have sent us a thousand harbingers of its approach, we are still surprised to wake up one balmy morning to a busy, chirping world that, a mere twenty-four hours before, had been a gray and silent one. Our surprise does not mean that all of us have failed to notice the first, subtle shiftings of the seasons. It just means that most of us haven’t bothered to think about them; because at a practical or useful level, spring isn’t ‘here’ until it’s full enough here to make a difference in our mundane lives—in what we decide to wear, how we plan our activities, and what we do with our time, even in what and how much we decide to eat. So it has been with us and the Great Emergence.”

In a matter of months, the church in Gordon, Texas, in Portland, Oregon, and everywhere in between has taken itself completely online. We are no longer doing ministry like we were once used to or in ways that are familiar. The spring that Tickle writes about is no longer creeping in; it’s here.

And yet, like he always does, in a way that is oh so familiar, Jesus is calling us by name and telling us to go. We may have been spectators, following along for the memories or the great photos to share on our timelines, but it is now our turn to go. And, in the midst of all that is changing around us, we have work to do, we have good news to share. The kingdom of heaven has come near. This is the announcement we must still make.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. So be it. Amen.