By Pastor Tracey Leslie
Scripture:  Luke 24:13-35

​Britt's and my first ministry assignment was to a 3-church, inner-city charge in Erie, PA.  At one of those churches was an older man who was quite accustomed to making all of the church's decisions.  Our first spring, we gathered with some key church leaders to plan the Lenten and Easter season.  All was going well until Britt and I made reference to Easter communion.  At that moment, the gentleman became visibly angry.  "You can't have communion on Easter," he said.  "Communion is about death and that's sad.  That will ruin Easter."  And shortly thereafter he stormed out of the meeting.

United Methodist Bishop Robert Morgan tells about an experience he had early in his ministry.  One day a teenager in his church asked him why the Lord's Supper was often referred to as The Last Supper.  Rev. Morgan responded that it was Jesus' final meal with his disciples before his death.  Then, he asked the young woman what she thought and she replied, "I believe that it was called the Last Supper because it was the last of several 'supper events' in the life of Jesus.”  That’s a wise young lady.

This morning's scripture from Luke is one of those supper stories.  In fact, Luke, to an even greater degree than the other gospel writers, highlights Jesus' supper events as times of hospitality, reconciliation and celebration.  Meals, the communal “breaking of bread,” was an enormously important thing in the ancient world… and still is in many cultures today.  Our American custom of eating, by oneself, food wrapped up in Styrofoam and dropped in a paper sack, makes us pretty culturally unique because food has long meant and symbolized much more in many places around the world.  In many cultures across history, eating is as much a social event as it is a culinary event.
 
This morning's scripture from Luke is both a meal story and a resurrection appearance story.  All of our gospels contain stories of Jesus appearing to his disciples in the time between his resurrection and his ascension, his return to heaven.  Those stories served to address a very understandable concern for the early church – how would later generations come to trust in Jesus, to trust in who he was, without having first-hand, physical interaction and experiences with Jesus?  Was it even possible for Christians to experience Jesus’ presence after he’d been crucified, resurrected and returned to heaven?  It’s an important question.
 
As this morning’s story from Luke begins, two disciples of Jesus are walking along, journeying from Jerusalem to the town of Emmaus.  As they walk along, they’re joined by a fellow-traveler.  They have been deeply engrossed in discussion; a discussion charged with emotion.  So, the one who joins them inquires about the content of their discussion.  The two followers are not at all bashful or reserved about sharing their conversation with this apparent stranger.  They tell him that they are mourning the death of Jesus… who was more than a friend to them, but one in whom they’d placed great hope; hope for the redemption of Israel.  They are grief-stricken and discouraged and they make no attempt to hide their feelings.  These two travelers are journeying together and Jesus has mysteriously entered into their midst.  Yet oddly enough, they are – at least at this point – unaware of Jesus’ identity.  Still, their cluelessness does not negate the fact:  Jesus is right there with them. 
 
As our story continues, notice what happens next.  After the two disciples have emotionally unloaded on Jesus, he begins to teach them about scripture.  Specifically, he begins to teach them about scripture in relation to himself.  Jesus assures them that what has taken place shouldn’t be interpreted as disappointing or discouraging.  In fact, much to the contrary: what has taken place has been a fulfillment of scripture. 

Now, eventually, the two disciples arrive at their destination.  Jesus makes it appear as if he's going to be traveling on.  But, the day is drawing to a close and, in a culture where hospitality plays such a significant role it shouldn’t surprise us that they plead with Jesus to spend the night with them.  Jesus accepts their invitation, an invitation that will result, ultimately, in the unveiling of his identity.  The story contains a bit of irony and humor as we can imagine these disciples saying, with a touch of indignation:  “Are you the only one in Jerusalem who doesn’t know what’s been going on?”  They are flabbergasted that Jesus could be so clueless while we, as readers of the gospel, know that they are the ones who are clueless.  Jesus knows them; but they don’t recognize him.  He knows what they've been discussing, he knows what they've been feeling, he even knows what they've been thinking.  And his coming into the midst of them is designed to transform and convert their words, their thoughts and their feelings.

Now, the description of what Jesus does at the dinner table ought to sound familiar to us.  It’s the same sequence of actions Jesus performed when he celebrated Passover with his disciples on the night before his crucifixion.  It is the same sequence of actions that I recite each time we celebrate Holy Communion in worship.  Every time we take communion, I say, “Jesus took the bread, blessed it, broke it, gave it to his disciples and said, ‘Take and eat, this is my body given for you.’”  Luke tells us in chapter 22 of that meal Jesus ate with his disciples in commemoration of Passover.  Luke tells us how Jesus took the bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying “This is my body, which is given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”

And now, these disciples in Emmaus – although they don’t yet realize it – are also sitting down to a supper with their Lord.  And, likewise, here in Emmaus Jesus serves as host; he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to his disciples.  And it is at that very moment that they realize who Jesus is.  Jesus is revealed to them in the breaking of the bread. 
 
Friends; this story of the disciples in Emmaus is a story designed to show us how and under what kinds of circumstances the followers of Christ continue to experience his presence after his death and resurrection.  It is a story of how Jesus continues to be revealed to us through the Word of Scripture and the breaking of bread, within the context of Christian fellowship and worship.

When I first arrived here to Trinity almost three years ago, one of the things many of you discussed with me was a desire for us to have more opportunities to break bread with one another.  My first Lent here at Trinity involved a sermon series called “Table Talk.”  After those Lenten worship services, we headed to the Friendship Room in the basement to eat together and talk about that morning’s scripture and how it was and could continue to be experienced in our lives.  So notice what happens in this morning’s gospel story:

First, the followers of Jesus are spending time together.  After Jesus’ death, they didn’t just go off in their own directions.  These two followers are journeying together, talking as they go.  Now admittedly, anyone with a lick of common sense in the ancient world wouldn’t have traveled alone.  They had no cell phones or GPS.  It wasn’t very safe to travel alone.  But the point remains the same.  In all of our gospels, following his crucifixion, the disciples of Jesus continue to hang out together.  They come together on a regular basis.  And the book of Acts tells us what they do when they come together: they share their belongings, they minister to the poor, they worship together, they pray together and they eat together.  In fact, in the early church, Holy Communion involved a whole lot more than a tiny morsel of bread and a little sip of juice.  The bread and the cup were both consumed within the context of a full, community meal.

But getting back to our Emmaus disciples… After they recognize Jesus at the table as he breaks the bread, they return – immediately, despite the late hour of the day – they immediately return to Jerusalem to share their experience of the risen Christ with other disciples.  Friends, Church is not a spectator sport.  If your only experience of church is coming here on Sunday morning and sitting quietly in worship and then going on your way, your attendance is counted, but you have not experienced Church because Church is more than a vertical experience of me and Jesus; Church is also a horizontal experience of you and me and everyone around us.  We are intended to share the good news of our encounters with and experiences of Jesus with one another.  That is what it means to be the Church.  We come together with one another to share our experiences of Jesus with one another… just as the Christians in the early Church did.

Again, back to those Emmaus disciples…  They’re walking and talking and Jesus joins them and when he asks what they’ve been discussing, they share their conversation and are honest about their discouragement and disappointment.  And that is another part of what it means to authentically be the Church.  Sometimes we are discouraged; sometimes we fail to see what is right under our noses because we’re human and we have certain preconceived notions about how God ought to be at work in the world and in our lives.  “We had hoped…” these disciples say.  But, they had pinned their hopes on some erroneous assumptions.  They didn’t get what they were expecting.  In fact, the actions of God took them completely by surprise.  And that happens to us too.  Sometimes we have preconceived notions about God and what God will do and how God will behave.  But sometimes we’re wrong.  Sometimes we experience God in a completely unexpected way and, when that happens, we need to share that experience with others.  Sacred revelation, friends, isn’t just what is printed on the pages of this book.  Sacred revelation is still happening today in our lives and we need to take notice of it and we need to share it with one another because I’ll learn more about Jesus when you share your experiences with me and you’ll learn more about Jesus when I share my experiences with you.  Isn’t that great?  I think it is.
 
Friends, hopefully many of you are aware that Trinity is launching some new initiatives over the next several months to try to build stronger relationships with our community.  And those initiatives all have something to do with food.  We’re planting a Community Garden.  But, we’re not just going to grow vegetables.  We’re going to plan cookouts on the lawn: to grill and eat and fellowship; to break bread with our neighbors.  We’re going to begin a Family to Family initiative; having monthly gatherings with families that need some extra support: financially, emotionally, spiritually.  And each time we gather, we’ll share a meal together.  Because there is something amazing that happens when we sit down at a table together and invite the presence of Christ to sit with us.  When we break bread, Jesus is in our midst.  And we will need you to join us at those cookouts and those meals because that is church.  I hope that none of you will be tempted to say, “Oh, I don’t really need to go to that.  It’s not worship; it’s not a mission project; it’s not a committee meeting (thank goodness); it’s not… church.”  But here’s the thing: it is Church.  That is Church.  When we come together to break bread; to demonstrate simple hospitality; to celebrate the fellowship we’re blessed to share.  When we come together around the table not to preach at people but to authentically share our experiences of Jesus with them and invite to share their experiences with us; that is Church.  And we can do that even if we’re having an off day; even if our day – or our life – isn’t going the way we expected; even if God isn’t turning up in the ways we expected.  Even if we don’t recognize his presence – even if the people with whom we are breaking bread don’t noticed his presence; that doesn’t negate the fact: Jesus is here with us.  Friends:  whether it happens in this sanctuary, downstairs in the Fellowship Hall or even outside on our front lawn, Jesus can still make himself known to us in the breaking of the bread. 

By Pastor Tracey Leslie
Scripture:  Matthew 28:1-15

When I was in middle school, my mom used to come home from church, turn on the TV and start preparing Sunday dinner.  The TV was tuned in to Oral Roberts.  But it wasn’t Roberts’ preaching that my mom really enjoyed.  For her, the draw was the music.  Every week the Oral Roberts singers performed one piece that seemed, particularly, to feed my mother’s soul while she prepared to feed our family’s hungry tummies.  The song’s chorus, based on scripture, was this:  “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.”  1 John is where we find the scripture verse:    “Little children, you are from God, and have conquered them; for the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.”  I guess my mom needed to hear that reminder each week.  The church my dad was pastoring at that time was the most challenging he ever served.  During his time there, my dad developed several health issues – borderline glaucoma, high blood pressure, difficulties with his weight and periodic bouts of hives.  In addition, during that time my mom’s parents began to decline significantly in health.  My grandfather began to have mini-strokes on a frequent basis.  They still lived in their little home tucked into the side of a mountain on the outskirts of Johnstown.  Their only neighbor in close proximity was a man who was mentally unstable.  He dressed like Fidel Castro and marched up and down the mountain “on patrol” with his gun.  Gone were the days when my grandfather could tend his grape arbor and pick wild berries off the mountain; so, too, my grandmother’s large gladiola garden withered as they found themselves trapped in their own home, afraid to even venture into their back yard.  My mom and her siblings had begun to struggle with the difficult issue of convincing my grandparents it was time to leave the homestead and move in to a small apartment complex for seniors on the other side of town.  My mom seemed to silently and stoically bear the burdens of her family’s struggles.  But she could not bear to miss that weekly broadcast that sung out the good news:  “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.”
 
Imagine how those disciples of Jesus must have felt on their way to the tomb on that first Easter morning.  Those women bore an enormous burden of grief.  Our gospel evangelists don’t really give us much information about the women who followed Jesus.  But in Matthew’s account of Jesus’ death he concludes by saying that there were many women there, “looking on from a distance; they had followed Jesus from Galilee and had attended to his needs.  Among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.”[1]

Imagine how the women must have felt as they walked together toward the tomb that morning.  Imagine how heavy their hearts must have been.  They had watched their precious rabbi – the one they loved, the one they served, the one in whom they placed great faith…  Well, they had last seen him hanging from a cross; they had heard him cry out those dreadful words “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me;” they’d watched him struggling in pain until he drew his last tortured breath.  It’s hard to say exactly what inspired them to make the painful journey to the tomb that morning.  Luke tells us that the women went to anoint Jesus with burial spices.  But Matthew tells us only that they “went to see.”  They went to look upon a tomb, a place of death.  They could not possibly have been prepared for God to rock their world – quite literally, with an earthquake.  God rocked their world and transformed all that was predictable and logical… all that was mournful and broken.  God threw it all out the window.  God took death and transformed it into life.

Once when I was a young, naïve seminary student I preached a sermon on the call of Abraham entitled “The God of Amazing Possibilities.”  I thought it was a pretty good sermon.  I felt good about its delivery and planned to let it go at that.  But you can imagine my surprise when a young couple in the church pinned me down after worship wanting to know if I could come visit them that week and talk with them about an “impossible” situation going on in their lives.  From this long distance vantage point I can remember nothing more of their crisis than that it involved the husband’s mother and her behavior placing a great burden on their marriage.  They needed to know, they needed to see and hear that there was the possibility of new life in what seemed like a hopeless situation.  Theology, my friends, is meaningless in a vacuum.  What really matters is what we do and say to others (and to one another) when we are looking dead-on at a dead end.  When push comes to shove, our experience matters; all we really know for sure is what we have known AND SEEN as real in our own lives.

I think I’ve come to the conclusion that all of us, any of us, can really only speak with authority of what we’ve experienced for ourselves, what we’ve seen with our own eyes. 

The women at the tomb that first Easter morning saw something entirely unexpected.  They went there expecting to see the tomb of a dead man.  What they saw, however, was an angel and a living, resurrected Lord.  What they saw, what they experienced that day, changed their world… and ours.  What they saw that morning was that the power of Jesus was greater than any sorrow they’d known up to that point.  “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.”

But what also catches my interest in this morning’s gospel story is that the women were not the only ones to experience the earthquake, to see the angel of the Lord and to hear his message.  The guards heard and saw as well.  They, too, experienced the event.  And yet their response was quite different.  Matthew tells the story with a touch of humor.  While Jesus, the dead man, is resurrected, these guards, alive and well, become “like dead men” in the midst of this miraculous event.  As the women run obediently to proclaim the good news to Jesus’ disciples, the guards return to the city to give a report of these events to the chief priests.  Their response is not one of joyous proclamation; their response is one of fear.  They become accomplices; agreeing to a plan devised by the religious leaders, a cunning plan, a cover-up, a great lie, complete with bribery and intimidation.

And that, my friends, is a choice that all of us face.  We all (over the course of our lives) come face-to-face with the impossible, the unthinkable, the dreadful, the insurmountable.  We see things that we might have never imagined.  And for some, the response is to retreat in fear; to intimidate, to manipulate; to counter the miraculous with fake news. 

But many of us are here this morning because we have had a very different response.  We have seen – and experienced – something different.  Faced with the impossible, the unthinkable, the insurmountable, we gather here this morning to defiantly celebrate that we have a Savior who transforms death into new life.  We have seen Jesus’ life at work within our lives – as individuals and as a church.  We have seen the impossible become possible.  We know that we worship a risen Lord because he has turned our despair into hope and our sorrows into joy.  We have seen it and experienced it for ourselves.  Jesus is the one who can make life burst forth even from places of death and emptiness.  We have seen it and we have trusted it enough to keep looking.

And we must trust it enough to go and tell others like those women did so long ago.  Some of you here this morning, like those women on that first Easter morning, have seen and experienced remarkable things.  I have been blessed to hear some of your stories.  People often ask me what I enjoy most about being a pastor.  And one of the things I most enjoy, most treasure, is hearing the stories of those who have discovered new life even in places of death and sorrow and loss.  In just my three short years here at Trinity, I’ve led some small groups in which we’ve shared those stories, our stories, with one another; stories about our experiences; stories of how God has taken the broken and hopeless places in our lives and resurrected them to new life.

And that is what Easter is about.  That morning long ago, those women went to see what they assumed would be a scene of death and despair.  And, in a certain sense it was.  There was a tomb.  Their eyes had not deceived them.  That Good Friday horror was real and likely not a feeling they would ever shake.  But it wasn’t the end of the story.  There was something greater to see: life; new life springing from a place of death. 

And that’s what calls us to this place.  When we come together, week after week in this place, we celebrate what those women discovered on that morning long ago:  that there is the power of life at work in our lives in ways that are greater and more powerful than any of our sorrows.

Not only here, but out there in the world, we are people called to go and tell what we have seen with our own eyes: that the Spirit of the risen Christ at work within us and among us is greater than anything the world can thrust against us.  We have seen for ourselves and we know:  Greater is he who is in us than he who is in the world.

My friends, this morning’s resurrection story is a reminder to us that we, too, must go and tell others the good news that there is one who has power to transform even death into new life.  Our stories must be shared.  We must go and tell so that others can also see: “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.”    
 
There is a story of a young soldier who lost his legs in battle. Something died within the young man when he found he would never walk again. He lay in his hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He refused to talk to anyone who tried to help him. He refused to cooperate with doctors or nurses who wanted to help him to adjust.

One day another patient strolled in and sat down on a chair near the bed. He drew a harmonica from his pocket and began to play softly. The patient looked at him for a second, then back to the ceiling. That was all for that day. The next day he came again. For several days he continued to come and to play quietly. One day he said, "Does my playing annoy you?" The patient said, "No, I guess I like it." They talked a little more each day.

One day the harmonica player was in a jovial mood. He played a sprightly tune and began to do a tap dance. The soldier looked on but was apparently unimpressed. "Hey, why don't you smile once and let the world know you're alive!" the dancer said with a friendly smile. But the legless soldier said, "I might as well be dead as in the fix I'm in." "Okay," answered his friend, "so you're dead. But you're not as dead as a fellow who was crucified two thousand years ago, and He came out of it all right." "Oh, it's easy for you to preach," replied the soldier from his bed, "but if you were in my fix, you'd sing a different tune." With this the dancer stood up and said, "I know a two-thousand-year-old resurrection is pretty far in the dim past. So maybe an up-to-date example will help you to believe it can be done." With that he pulled up his trouser legs and the young man in the bed looked and saw two artificial limbs. The tap-dancing fellow with the harmonica knew his pain. He once lay where that young soldier now lay. He had seen and known great sorrow.  But he had also seen, experienced for himself, the power of resurrection. He had learned to trust in one who brought new life out of death and despair and sorrow.  He had a story to share and an opportunity to go and tell:  “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.”

[1] Matthew 27:55-56.  NRSV.

By Pastor Tracey Leslie
Scripture:  Matthew 21:1-11

When I was about 7 years old, my family took a summer vacation to Massachusetts in our very old Chevy.  Back then, people didn’t travel as much as they do today and car odometers only had five digits.  When you reached 99,999, your next mile flipped the car’s odometer back to 00000.  And during our family vacation, right there in the heart of downtown Plymouth, Mass, our Chevy odometer turned over.  I was thrilled!  Back then people also didn’t care much about seat belts – wearing them wasn’t legally required – and when my dad announced the impending rollover, I leaned over the front seat to see all 5 digits flip to zeros.  In hindsight, what makes that event even more entertaining is that I could have been so excited about that old Chevy.  It was so old and dilapidated; we were lucky it even got us back to Pennsylvania.  We had nicknamed the car "Patches" because its body was held together by putty of varying hues. 
 
This morning is Palm Sunday.  It is the day we remember Jesus' entry into Jerusalem during what would turn out to be his last week on earth.  And quite an entry it was.  Jesus was cheered and welcomed by the masses.  It was Passover time and Jews from all over Israel had come to Jerusalem for this important religious pilgrimage.  The city was packed with people – pilgrims, merchants, soldiers.  And Jesus' entry turned into a parade of sorts.  According to Matthew, the crowd got so wound up at the sight of Jesus that their shouting and general uproar caused the city to shake like an earthquake – if you can imagine that.  The long and the short of it was that the crowd just couldn't have been any happier, any more jubilant, any more impressed… for the time being at least.  It's hard to know precisely what they expected from Jesus.  But it must have been something big.
 
And yet, Jesus didn't enter the city that day by a very glamorous mode of transportation.  He rode into town on a donkey, which broke with his usual mode of transportation: walking.  Until now Jesus and his disciples had, like most first-century travelers, simply walked from place to place. Occasionally, they took a boat, but even when Jesus was on the water, he walked.
 
Which might make us wonder:  Why does Jesus now decide to mount up?  And if he's going to ride, why not choose something a little more impressive, like a horse?  Horses were for warriors and kings, victors, the strong and the powerful.  Donkeys?  Well, they were more like my family's old Chevy.  Not so impressive.
 
And so Matthew tells us why when he declares that it is to fulfill scripture, specifically the image drawn in Zechariah 9:9 of a king entering Jerusalem “humbly and riding on a donkey.”  The point Jesus makes on Palm Sunday is that, yes he is king; yes he is the Son of David.  But he is a different kind of king than one might expect.  He is not a warrior king mounted on a stallion.  Jesus will not draw a sword to vanquish his enemies.  Instead, Jesus will submit to his heavenly Father's will and the powers of this world in order to vanquish our enemies, sin and death.  Jesus is no warrior king; he's humble and meek which doesn't turn out to sit very well with those Jerusalem pilgrims.  In less than a week, their sentiments will change and their cheerful shouts of "Hosanna" will evolve into an angry mob shouting "Crucify."
 
There was once an old fisherman and his wife who lived in a humble pig-stye by the sea.  One day, as he fished, his line was dragged deep into the water and, when he drew it up, there was a large flounder that spoke to him and said, "Fisherman, I am not really a flounder but an enchanted prince.  Pray thee, let me go."  "Why, a flounder that can talk, I should certainly let go," said the man and released the fish.  When he returned home his wife asked, "Did you catch nothing today?"  "Oh, I caught a flounder who said he was a prince, and so, I let him go," said the man.  "You let him go?" asked the woman, "without even making a wish?"  "What would I wish for?" asked the man.  "Why I should think we would not always live in this stinking pig-stye," said the woman.  "Go and tell the flounder we wish to have a cottage."  And so the fisherman returned to the sea and called out:
Flounder, flounder in the sea,
come I pray thee, unto me
for my wife, good Ilsabil,
wills not as I'd have her will.
 
The flounder swam quickly to the surface and asked, "What does she want?"  "She wishes to live in a cottage," said the man.  "Go," said the flounder, "and you will find it so."  The man returned to find his wife sitting beside the door of a lovely little cottage.  "Come and see," said the wife.  And, as they looked around, the man sighed and said, "Well, now, you shall be content, shall you not?"  The two ate dinner and went to bed.  A day or two went by before the wife, growing irritable, said to her husband, "This cottage is quite small.  The flounder could have done much better.  Go and tell him I wish to have a castle."  "Ah, my wife," said the man.  "This is quite good enough."  "Go," said his wife.  "The flounder should be happy to make it so."  As the man walked toward the sea, he noticed that the sky was growing gray, the wind had begun to blow and the water, when he reached it, was murky and choppy.  He called out once again:
Flounder, flounder in the sea,
come I pray thee, unto me
for my wife, good Ilsabil,
wills not as I'd have her will.
 
The flounder made his way to the surface and asked, "What is it that she wants?"  "She would like to live in a castle," said the man, somewhat sheepishly.  "Very well," said the flounder.  "It is so."  When the man returned, there stood a lovely stone castle.  There were gardens and an orchard and stables.  Entering the hallway of the castle, servants bustled about.  He called to his wife at the end of the hall, "Wife, surely now you are satisfied."  "We shall see," said she.  The day passed.  Once again, they ate and went to bed.  The next morning, when they awakened, the wife turned to her husband, "I have been thinking.  This castle is not enough.  We deserve more.  We should be king."  "King!" exclaimed the man.  "I do not wish to be king."  "Then I shall be king instead," said the woman.  "You must go to the flounder and make it so."  And so the man went with great reluctance and the sky above had grown darker.  The wind was howling and, at water's edge, waves were breaking and crashing.  The man called out:
Flounder, flounder in the sea,
come I pray thee, unto me
for my wife, good Ilsabil,
wills not as I'd have her will.
 
After making his way to the surface, the flounder asked, "What does she now want?"  The man responded, "She wants to be king."  "Go," said the flounder, "for it is so."  Upon his return, the man saw an even larger castle with an even greater number of servants and at the end of the long, great hall sat his wife upon a throne with a crown upon her head.  "Wife, you are king," said the man.  "Let it be enough."  And yet, the day had not ended before the woman summoned her husband.  "Husband," she said.  "I have decided.  To be pope is greater than to be king.  Tell the flounder I wish to be pope."  "One cannot simply decide to be pope," said the man.  "Listen," said the woman.  "I am your king and I have given you an order."  And so, with heavy heart, the man returned to the sea.  As the wind howled and the green, murky water churned, the man called out:
Flounder, flounder in the sea,
come I pray thee, unto me
for my wife, good Ilsabil,
wills not as I'd have her will.
 
The flounder surfaced and asked, "What does she wish?"  "She wishes to be pope," said the man.  "Go, for it is so," the flounder said.  Upon his return, there was no longer one great castle, but a cathedral surrounded by smaller castles with many priests and servants.  As he entered the church there sat his wife in priestly garb upon a throne surrounded by the light of many candles.  "You must be satisfied," said the man and, wearily, he made his way to bed.  The next morning, before the sun had dawned, the exhausted man was awakened by his wife.  "I know what I must have," said the woman.  "I wish to be like God."  The man shuddered and said, "Oh, wife.  You cannot wish for such a thing.  Please.  I beg of you."  But his wife would not be reasoned with and flew into a rage and ordered her husband to go.  Outside the wind was howling fiercely, ripping leaves from the trees and bending their boughs.  The water of the sea foamed and churned and was green and thick.  The man could not even hear his own voice as he shouted over the storm:
Flounder, flounder in the sea,
come I pray thee, unto me
for my wife, good Ilsabil,
wills not as I'd have her will.
 
The flounder, making his way to the surface, asked the man.  "What now can she possibly want?"  Trembling the man said, "She wishes to be like God."  And suddenly, the sea grew still and the wind became calm and the flounder spoke, "It is so.  Return and you will find her once again in a pig-stye."