I'm often amazed at the transformative power of story. I remember the first story I ever read fully on my own...Strawberries for Breakfast. Our kindergarten teacher would have us sit in a big circle on the floor.

She asked me one day what story I wanted to hear and I suggested the strawberry book. But, I also asked if I could read it. This was pretty bold for a kid who is as shy as the year is long. Maybe I'd remembered all the words from hearing it so often, but maybe I actually read it on my own.

My son Riley enjoys a similar book, now, Pancakes for Breakfast...imagine that, we're both big fans of breakfast.

But this book has no words, only pictures, but he knows the story. It might be a bit different each time we read it, but the story's there. In the end, the dog and cat eat all the pancake ingredients and the lady helps herself to the neighbor's pancakes. And they all live happily ever after.

In kindergarten, I didn't grasp the power of reading words on a page to pass on information or fantasy. The story's power to enlighten, to inform, to tell the history of a people. The hearing of these stories, the act of listening makes us a part of that story.

It's Sunday night and a group of disciples are meeting in a house. The house is locked, or shut, depending on what version of the story you hear, because the disciples were afraid of the authorities. Perhaps they would meet the same fate as their friend three days before.

But why should they be afraid? Hadn't they just been told by another that the Lord had been seen? Didn't they believe her? Maybe they did believe her and that's why they were afraid. Who's to say.

No one knocked at the door. No one slipped a note saying "Let me in." No one went to pull the latch. But, who knows? Maybe they did.

What the story does say, is that Jesus came and stood among them. This act, this being present among them is what happens first. The next act is that of a greeting, "Peace be with you."

Without hesitation, as if he knew what they were thinking, "Is this really him?," he shows them not the good-as-new, new-and-improved Risen Jesus with kung-fu grip and a new paint job. He shows them the marks of his crucifixion. The marks of the one who died truly being also the one risen.

That's what it takes for them to change. That's what it takes for them to be born anew. In their story, that's what it takes to become a new creation. The transformation from fear to rejoicing.

Those disciples gathered in that room in Jerusalem, or in that house in Galilee, or that basilica in Rome, that cathedral in London, by that lake shore in Kentucky, or this chapel in Austin...all witness to this transformation, not only of the one risen on the third day, but of those seated to our right and to our left.

This transformation of faith in the one who kept the promises he made earlier in the story: to come to them, have them see him, and turn their sorrow into joy.

If it stopped there, it'd still be a pretty good story. The evangelist would have a solid foundation for telling and retelling the story of the Messiah, the Son of God, the incarnate word who was with God, and was God; the eternal Word who was in the beginning with God, who became flesh and lived among us and showed us and made known to us the God of all.

But, the story doesn't stop there. Again the comfortable words of "Peace be with you. As happens in the life and love of that which is Trinity, I send you out into the world."

So, Jesus breathes on them and they receive the Holy Spirit. This breath present in Genesis as God breathes new life into the human being made from dust; present in Ezekiel as God breathes new life into the valley of the dry bones; present in the room with the unnumbered, unnamed disciples as they perform the act of listening and of receiving.

This transformation, not once, but many times over, from being gathered in fear and doubt, to being the body of Christ sent out to the world to do the work he has given us to do.

By seventh grade, I had done an amazing thing. I had gone seven years, in Catholic school, and had never been asked or assigned to be a reader at our weekly Eucharists. Seven years. Sure, I had been an altar boy, crucifer, torch bearer. I had been in all the school plays, as long as I had a costume and a fake accent, as long as I was pretending.

Whether or not she was keeping track of the past 245 weeks of school Eucharists, Miss Roby picked me to read a lesson during Holy Week. After the initial horror, followed by reassurance and rehearsal with my mom, I did it. "Always speak to the person at the very back of the Church." "If you think you're reading slow, read slower." I did it. The principal then asked me to read the daily devotionals on the school intercom system.

By the time I started college, broadcasting was the thing I wanted to do. I liked public speaking, thought I was pretty good at it, and wanted to learn everything I could about how to make it in the big leagues.

Little did I know that, for me, the big leagues would be public radio, where during the season of fundraising, my job was to preach 6-minute stewardship sermons, twice an hour for four hours telling of the benefits of this station, and all that public broadcasting to offer in terms of news, entertainment...in terms of telling people's stories.

Thinking, on some level, that broadcasting was all about what you said, how you said it, and what people would think of you, I learned a lesson from someone on NPR's Morning Edition.

The national host just introduced a piece about a man in Lexington, Kentucky, who was a party planner. The big, fancy garden parties known far and wide around the bluegrass region… a region of horse farms and old money; of mint juleps on the veranda.

Daniel Picklesheimer told his story. In lavish detail. The texture of the table fabric, the smell of the lilac centerpieces, the salty taste of Kentucky spoonfish, soon to sweep the country as the caviar of the South.

Without realizing it, all of us in the studio were dead silent. We hung on his every word, because that's all we heard. There was no reporter's voice narrating the experience of visiting Daniel on the job. It was just Daniel.

And we listened. The producer then added some appropriate music to add just enough of a vehicle to carry Daniel across the yard, but not too much as to turn your ear away from the story.

"We were in the backyard of this woman's house. The lawn was cut so perfectly, it's as if her gardener used nail clippers on each and every blade of grass.

The trees weren't missing a limb and not a single leaf was out of place. It was when I was raising the tent pole that I noticed it....a single yellow flower, pushing itself out of the ground to meet the glorious rays of sunlight we could only take for granted.

This little flower became the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Maybe because I like yellow, or maybe because it wasn't supposed to be there. It was out of place, out of sync with the rest of its oh-so-perfect surroundings.

Then, she came running out of the house screaming like a banshee and snatched that flower out of the ground and ripped it up in front of God and all the world to see. 'No more yellow flowers,' she screamed."

The next few seconds of radio silence was deafening.

Then it hit me. We were all truly listening. We had stopped everything we were doing and listened to this story. This story, which belonged to one single person, Daniel Picklesheimer of Lexington, Kentucky, who planned parties for a living and had almost lost faith in humanity because one woman had destroyed a radical piece of beauty.

I finally got it. This was all about giving people space. Space for them to tell their story, and space for us to hear it. My job, my action in the narrative is to listen and receive. My job is to take those few minutes, stop what I'm doing, and listen to the story.

My job is not to judge, or criticize, or make recommendations on how to make that story better. My job is to listen and incorporate that person's story into my own, so that I witness what it is that makes us more the same than different.

Jesus commissioned the unnamed, unnumbered disciples on the night of the resurrection. For the evangelist of the fourth gospel, the rising from death and sending of the Holy Spirit as the Father sent the Son, is a single event. This idea of being sent is throughout John's gospel. The idea of being empowered for mission is the work of the Church.

William Willimon preached that Church is a gift from God, who comes to us, whose presence makes the church. To the church which had nothing, Christ gives everything.

We are church, not because of the building we've built and cared for, not because of the choir, the organ, the preaching, or the various activities. We are church because to us, Christ has come and given us his gifts of Spirit, mission, and forgiveness, commissioning us to give them to the whole world in his name."

This might be hard stuff to hear, especially for those folks who work hard for the building campaign, or the choir, the Sunday School program, the potluck suppers, and morning worship.

This is all good work, though, as long as we remember why we're doing it. Through this work, we're called to share our stories, listen to other's stories, and incorporate all that with the story of salvation made incarnate through the life, death and resurrection of Christ.

The stories we listen to and share are all part of God's Spirit for mission…whether stories of flowers and breakfast; stories of sadness and joy. Stories of unemployment, birthdays, loneliness, heartbreak, a new dog, and old friend.

The risen Christ comes to us and stands among us, and we among him. He invites us to continue the story. In our fear, our doubt, our confusion, and our pain, he speaks to us, "Peace be with you." And we listen.