Beyond Illusion

Rev. Beau Underwood

On Easter, I opened my sermon by attempting to perform a magic trick.

My intention was to convey how reflections on the resurrection often focus on explanation. Whether skeptics who assert a deception or believers who proclaim a miracle, rationalization follows. The goal is either to logically undermine the event or plausibly defend its possibility. In contrast, I wanted to call attention to its implications. Rather than deciphering how it happened, my desire was to talk about what it means for our lives. 

The magic trick didn’t go well. 

I used an old hidden ball trick from a childhood magic kit. I had performed this particular illusion dozens of times in front of an audience composed of family members who feigned interest in my adolescent hobby. But I was out of practice and the cotton balls that the trick hinged on were three decades old. They made an early, unplanned appearance that gave away the secret: instead of two balls magically traveling through the plastic cups, there were really four balls involved.

Magicians aren’t supposed to reveal their secrets. The entire crowd gathered for Easter openly saw mine.  

While I quickly moved on with the sermon, I realized the mishap was symbolically powerful in an unintended way. Instead of representing how the resurrection isn’t a divine magic trick that we should try to explain, my failed illustration demonstrated how poorly we substitute our actions and efforts for what God is doing in our lives, within our churches, and throughout the world.

Humans perform magic tricks because we’re entertained by puzzles. We’re distracted by what we know isn’t real but we can’t quite figure out. We devote our energy to exposing what is fake. We struggle to see behind the curtain, to go beneath the surface, to understand how the trick works. 

Meanwhile, God is constantly calling us into true relationship with each other and with the Holy One revealed in Jesus Christ. Lived with devotion and intention, the life of discipleship becomes a new and authentic way of being. It unmasks all the superficiality of modern society with the simple invitation to come and follow.

Indeed, so much of what distorts our relationships with God, Creation, and each other mirrors a magic trick. We create opaque structures designed to hide exploitation. We manufacture events and craft arguments intended to distract us from real abuses. It’s easy for us to perceive our existence as transpiring inside one extended performance where nothing is really as it seems. 

Good preaching exposes such ruses. It calls attention to the awfulness of our common deceits and the fact that much of the time we are only fooling ourselves. Most humans are pretty bad magicians; people generally see right through our acts.

Lamentably, the veneer remains because we’ve grown apathetic or fatalistic about our circumstances. Believing that nothing will ever change, we resign ourselves to living in a funhouse that robs so many of the flourishing God intends. 



Resurrection confronts such despondency. God’s love and life triumphs over death. It’s not magic. It’s just the nature of God. That’s a message the world is desperate to hear preached. 

Where Two or Three are Gathered

Rev. Sarah Taylor Peck

Both World Communion Sunday and the lectionary scriptures during the summer of Year B intimidate me as a Disciples of Christ preacher. Can I capture the reverence and significance of our holy sacrament with my words? Will I adequately describe this ritual that shapes our tradition and, in many ways, defines our theology? 

For a decade, I’ve stumbled and fumbled through sermons about communion, trying desperately to communicate to my congregation that this bread and this cup are meant to remind us all of God. One year, a pastoral care visit revealed the transformative power of communion. 

One afternoon in the midst of a politically divisive time in our local community, I brought communion to Ted and Barb in their living room. Weeks before, 83-year-old Ted heroically tumbled in the parking lot of their favorite Italian restaurant while trying to prevent Barb from falling. A true knight in shining armor to his longtime love. He broke his neck in this gesture. He now wore a neck brace 24/7 and the fall aged him. They hadn’t been to church since it happened. We visited for an hour. 

Ted spouted provocative political beliefs and dared me to respond. Our nation is turning against Christ, there is an assault on religious people, we are being persecuted, he said. I wondered if he wanted me to react, to refute, or challenge his convictions. I didn’t. 

Then, we shared communion. I said what I always say. I distributed the tiny plastic and cellophane topped elements, I spoke the words from 1 Corinthians that I could recite in my sleep: On the night that Jesus was betrayed… we all partook together. 

I asked if we could stand in a circle, hold hands, and say the Lord’s Prayer. When we got to Hollowed be thy name, Ted’s voice cracked. I peeked and saw the tears. He was weeping - really weeping - lines down his face, dripping into the carpet. It never stopped. He couldn’t stop. By Amen, it was nearly a howl in his throat.

And this moment became the church incarnate. That was it. Right there. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven said in a tiny circle where two or three gathered in Ted’s living room? Tears falling and the overwhelming presence of God with sacrament?

Something shifted. Something real happened. Something transformed. It has to happen a million and one times, again and again. But it will. It does. It did. Since that visit, I now understand that communion is the gospel. Communion is the good news. Communion is God. Amen.