The psalm and reading from the Book of Revelation are in the ‘top-ten’ of familiar scripture readings to Episcopalians. Though Psalm 23 shows up once every three years in the Sunday lectionary, of all the psalms, it is by far the most well-known and loved psalm. Even those who are non-practising Christians can often recite the psalm by heart because it has been such a part of literary culture and because it probably is the most frequently chosen psalm of the burial office.
Likewise, Chapter 7 from Revelation is bound to sound familiar for the same reason: it is one of the choices for the epistle reading in the burial office and people gravitate often to this reading. Maybe they do so unconsciously, not remembering that it also is the epistle reading for All Saints’ Day.
Clearly these two readings of hope and resurrection belong to the burial office and, more so, to Eastertide. Whether it is the psalmist’s bold proclamation of confidence in God, in the words, ‘Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever,’ or the words from Revelation that I have often used at the end of a sermon for a burial, ‘They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes,’ these two readings assure us of the hope of the resurrection.
They also tie together the first and last readings for today, which is always called, ‘Good Shepherd Sunday.’ The first reading from Acts speaks of resurrection with the revival of Dorcas (or Tabitha). And the gospel reading is minimally linked to the Revelation reading through the image of the shepherd.
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The thematic thread that links all these readings together is one that comes from nowadays and not necessarily when they were written, each at a separate time. Beyond the purported theme of the ‘good shepherd,’ which is drawn from the gospel reading is the theme of the resurrection, the ‘Christian hope.’
The Christian hope, as defined by the catechism is, ‘to live with confidence in newness and fullness of life, and to await the coming of Christ in glory, and the completion of God’s purpose for the world.’
The catechism elaborates on this opening statement with the following Q & A.
What do we mean by heaven…?
By heaven, we mean eternal life in our enjoyment of God….
What do we mean by the resurrection of the body?
We mean that God will raise us from death in the fullness of our being, that we may live with Christ in the communion of the saints.
What is the communion of the saints?
The communion of the saints is the whole family of God, the living and dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.
What do we mean by everlasting life?
By everlasting life, we mean a new existence, in which we are united with all the people of God, in the joy of fully knowing and loving God and each other.
What, then, is our assurance as Christians?
Our assurance as Christians is that nothing, not even death, shall separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
With that resounding profession, the catechism ends.
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Each reading before us today tries in its own way to articulate what the vision of perfectness in God can be.
It’s Tabitha, thought to be dead, being raised from her sickbed.
It’s God providing the psalmist with green pastures, still waters, a revived soul, the comfort of presence when the psalmist walks through the valley of death, the gift of a table, an anointed head and an overflowing cup.
It’s the promise of salvation, being clothed in the white robe of baptism, and being redeemed.
And it is Jesus proclaiming, ‘My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.’
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How to bring these wonderful theological ideas back down to earth? In the course of parish life over the years, I have had to think a lot of the resurrection as I remember deaths that have happened to family members of people in the congregation and within my extended family. No matter the age of the person who died, a death is wrenching. John Donne said that every person’s death diminished him. His words are true — when a death occurs, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe and for a moment, in that tear, one sees God’s tears. For a moment, the loss of hope seems imminent.
But, as Dr Jerome Groopman, a Jewish oncologist, writes in The Anatomy of Hope, ‘Hope, unlike optimism, is rooted in unalloyed reality.… Hope is the elevating feeling we experience when we see — in the mind’s eye — a path to a better future. Hope acknowledges the significant obstacles and deep pitfalls along that path. True hope has no room for delusion.’1
Whether it is that hope that we hold that all will be well for those who have died and for us someday when our time comes, or even the irrational hope, like a little flower growing out of parched land, such as I have seen in the poorest communities in El Salvador, this sentiment that sees a better future — in the afterlife or in the here and now — is what keeps us going.
You and I live in ‘unalloyed’ or unvarnished reality. We each have stories to tell of hardship, sadness, loss and suffering. We have walked on the twists and turns of life’s pathways and aren’t deluded by false optimism that often characterises our culture’s attitude toward hardship (along the lines of Bobby McFerron’s ‘Don’t worry, be happy’).
However, we have true hope — affirmation of life in the face of death. This hope, therefore, enables us to live with confidence in newness and fullness of life, yea, to live as ‘Easter people in a Good Friday world’ (Barbara Harris).
We can live in hope because we are part of that unbroken chain of witnesses, called the Communion of Saints, that stretches from the beginning of time to now and the unlimited future. As vast as the stars in heaven, you and I are part of that number, those loved by God from before the beginning and bound to God through baptism for ever. There can be only one response to this knowledge: alleluia!
END NOTE
(1) Jerome Groopman, The Anatomy of Hope: How People Prevail in the Face of Illness (New York: Random House, 2004), xiv.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Easter 3C
‘Come and have breakfast.’ Jesus’ words to the tired disciples have to be some of the most tender words in the gospels. How paradoxical that the risen Jesus comes across as most human in one of his post-resurrection appearances that come at the end of the gospel according to John. How paradoxical that the Jesus of this gospel, who seems to have known everything that was happening to him, also has this capacity to be intimate with his disciples whom he has called friends prior to his death.
Anyone who has been the recipient of someone bringing them even a cup of coffee first thing in the morning knows how gentle a gesture this can be. Breaking one’s fast with food brought by someone else can be a powerful moment. Just think of the children who, with help, bring their parents breakfast in bed. It is a sweet gesture.
+
The circumstances surrounding Jesus’ invitation to come eat are vastly different than a simple domestic scene. He and the disciples no longer are in Jerusalem, the site of such violence, but are once again back at Galilee with all the calm the lake has to offer.
The narrative revolves around the act of fishing. Later on in Christianity, the image of the fish became one of the symbols of Jesus — the capitals of the Greek words, ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour,’ spell out the word ‘fish’ (ichthys). Post-resurrection events, it would make sense for the disciples to be out fishing, though they have returned to their former and familiar lives along the sea of Tiberius, rather than go out and find more disciples.
So out they go in the night, raising our suspicions because in this gospel, weird conversations, such as that with Nicodemus, take place at night. This night trip yields nothing and in the morning, that time of rebirth and resurrection, the discouraged disciples return to shore. There they meet Jesus whom they do not recognise.
This still-unknown figure addresses them tenderly by calling them little children, using a term that conveys that they are those who do not yet understand; they are not mature in their faith. He tells them where to go fish so they do. Through that action, the disciple who loved Jesus tells Peter, ‘It is the Lord!’ This recognition scene parallels that of Luke’s narrative of the road to Emaus, which we also hear during Easter-tide. Impetuous Peter leaps overboard, as though he is leaping into the waters of baptism. The others, needless to say, do not follow suit.
And then this unknown figure meets them with cooking fish and gently asks them to have breakfast. Again, in the breaking of bread, preceded by the sharing of fish, they finally begin to fathom that this person is their risen saviour, appearing to them now for the third time.
The narrative could easily end at this point. We would think about how we don’t recognise Jesus in our midst and how sometimes we have to be hit on the head to realise he is there right in front of us. But there is a reason why this story continues on.
+
Our English translation renders the dialogue between Jesus and Peter meaningless because it uses the word, ‘love,’ to convey two Greek words. Jesus asks Peter if he loves him more than the others in the sense of sacrificial love. Peter answers with the more common understanding of friendship, saying, yes, of course, I am friendly with you. Peter misses the point in his conversation with Jesus. Jesus is using the language of agape, self-giving love, whereas Peter is using the word, philios, signifying friendship which is more inwardly directed. Despite Peter’s failure to grasp just what Jesus is asking, Jesus nonetheless asks him to feed his sheep, to accept this leadership that Jesus had excercised during his ministry.
+
These threads come together for us as we consider how we live out Jesus’ self-giving love in the context of our friendly love. Likewise, the scene, that of sharing food and eating, provides a framework to think about what these types of love mean for us.
Sara Miles whose book Take This Bread we read during Lent speaks about the connection between Jesus and food. She first had communion, agape, at the age of 46. Having tasted that bread, the bread of life, her world opened up and she started to feed others, first communion and then in a serious of food pantries, the first of which began around the altar in her church. As the pantry grew larger and larger, drawing in more people than all the Sunday services combined, the rector instructed her to enter the number of people attending the pantry into the service register because it was communion of a different kind. What united what happened on Sunday and Friday was the self-giving love of Christ. This type love does not necessarily mean that we like one another — that is of philios. Agape love means we seek and serve Christ, loving our neighbour as ourself. Living agape love invites, demands us to feed God’s people, regardless their station in life.
For three months now, Trinity has offered a lunch to the community. This is not your typical soup kitchen — this is a feast, a real meal! Consider coming for ham and scalloped potatoes, glazed carrots and cake. That was two weeks ago. Or comforting macaroni and cheese. That was last month. The goals of these meals are several: yes, they target a segment of the community who may not have enough to eat during the weekend and for whom this meal can provide a welcome tide-over. They also meet the needs of those who live in places without a proper kitchen. Finally, and this may surprise you, they are meant for us to gather together as companions on the journey. Our lives are united around food, healthy and not healthy, secular and holy. But we eat together and eating is one of the most basic acts that unites us.
We may fear engaging with people who may be different from us (or so we think). They are still God’s beloved children. Christ dwells in them as Christ dwells in us. And breaking bread together whether in here or in Nourse Hall is an action that transcends our wanting to stay on a philios level instead of engaging on the agape level.
+
Yesterday at the consecration of Ian Douglas, the 15th bishop diocesan of the Diocese of Connecticut, the preacher, Archbishop Desmond Tutu in his sermon said, ‘In God there is a unity of all people. God said, “I will draw ALL people to be held in this unbreakable embrace that won’t let us go.”’ He held himself in an embrace. Repeating the word, ‘all,’ over and over again, Tutu described all the different groups of people there are, the opposites, emphasising that God loves ALL. Finally, speaking to the bishop-elect, he said, ‘… [P]lease tell the children of God that each one of them is precious. Each one of them is held in this public embrace, each one of them is a member of God’s family. Tell them that, tell them that. Tell them.’ He ended his sermon this way.
Spreading that news of God’s love to all belongs to you and me, too, not just to a bishop. We all are charged to tell others about God’s unbreakable embrace, that agape Love that died and rose for us so that we might have eternal life. We may do so through lunches, we may through our worship, but please make sure this message goes beyond these walls to a community that so desperately needs to hear it... to a community that is starving.
END NOTES
Exegetical portion from Wes Howard-Brook, Becoming Children of God (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1994), 464-78.
Sara Miles, Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion (NY, NY: Ballentine Books, 2007).
Anyone who has been the recipient of someone bringing them even a cup of coffee first thing in the morning knows how gentle a gesture this can be. Breaking one’s fast with food brought by someone else can be a powerful moment. Just think of the children who, with help, bring their parents breakfast in bed. It is a sweet gesture.
+
The circumstances surrounding Jesus’ invitation to come eat are vastly different than a simple domestic scene. He and the disciples no longer are in Jerusalem, the site of such violence, but are once again back at Galilee with all the calm the lake has to offer.
The narrative revolves around the act of fishing. Later on in Christianity, the image of the fish became one of the symbols of Jesus — the capitals of the Greek words, ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour,’ spell out the word ‘fish’ (ichthys). Post-resurrection events, it would make sense for the disciples to be out fishing, though they have returned to their former and familiar lives along the sea of Tiberius, rather than go out and find more disciples.
So out they go in the night, raising our suspicions because in this gospel, weird conversations, such as that with Nicodemus, take place at night. This night trip yields nothing and in the morning, that time of rebirth and resurrection, the discouraged disciples return to shore. There they meet Jesus whom they do not recognise.
This still-unknown figure addresses them tenderly by calling them little children, using a term that conveys that they are those who do not yet understand; they are not mature in their faith. He tells them where to go fish so they do. Through that action, the disciple who loved Jesus tells Peter, ‘It is the Lord!’ This recognition scene parallels that of Luke’s narrative of the road to Emaus, which we also hear during Easter-tide. Impetuous Peter leaps overboard, as though he is leaping into the waters of baptism. The others, needless to say, do not follow suit.
And then this unknown figure meets them with cooking fish and gently asks them to have breakfast. Again, in the breaking of bread, preceded by the sharing of fish, they finally begin to fathom that this person is their risen saviour, appearing to them now for the third time.
The narrative could easily end at this point. We would think about how we don’t recognise Jesus in our midst and how sometimes we have to be hit on the head to realise he is there right in front of us. But there is a reason why this story continues on.
+
Our English translation renders the dialogue between Jesus and Peter meaningless because it uses the word, ‘love,’ to convey two Greek words. Jesus asks Peter if he loves him more than the others in the sense of sacrificial love. Peter answers with the more common understanding of friendship, saying, yes, of course, I am friendly with you. Peter misses the point in his conversation with Jesus. Jesus is using the language of agape, self-giving love, whereas Peter is using the word, philios, signifying friendship which is more inwardly directed. Despite Peter’s failure to grasp just what Jesus is asking, Jesus nonetheless asks him to feed his sheep, to accept this leadership that Jesus had excercised during his ministry.
+
These threads come together for us as we consider how we live out Jesus’ self-giving love in the context of our friendly love. Likewise, the scene, that of sharing food and eating, provides a framework to think about what these types of love mean for us.
Sara Miles whose book Take This Bread we read during Lent speaks about the connection between Jesus and food. She first had communion, agape, at the age of 46. Having tasted that bread, the bread of life, her world opened up and she started to feed others, first communion and then in a serious of food pantries, the first of which began around the altar in her church. As the pantry grew larger and larger, drawing in more people than all the Sunday services combined, the rector instructed her to enter the number of people attending the pantry into the service register because it was communion of a different kind. What united what happened on Sunday and Friday was the self-giving love of Christ. This type love does not necessarily mean that we like one another — that is of philios. Agape love means we seek and serve Christ, loving our neighbour as ourself. Living agape love invites, demands us to feed God’s people, regardless their station in life.
For three months now, Trinity has offered a lunch to the community. This is not your typical soup kitchen — this is a feast, a real meal! Consider coming for ham and scalloped potatoes, glazed carrots and cake. That was two weeks ago. Or comforting macaroni and cheese. That was last month. The goals of these meals are several: yes, they target a segment of the community who may not have enough to eat during the weekend and for whom this meal can provide a welcome tide-over. They also meet the needs of those who live in places without a proper kitchen. Finally, and this may surprise you, they are meant for us to gather together as companions on the journey. Our lives are united around food, healthy and not healthy, secular and holy. But we eat together and eating is one of the most basic acts that unites us.
We may fear engaging with people who may be different from us (or so we think). They are still God’s beloved children. Christ dwells in them as Christ dwells in us. And breaking bread together whether in here or in Nourse Hall is an action that transcends our wanting to stay on a philios level instead of engaging on the agape level.
+
Yesterday at the consecration of Ian Douglas, the 15th bishop diocesan of the Diocese of Connecticut, the preacher, Archbishop Desmond Tutu in his sermon said, ‘In God there is a unity of all people. God said, “I will draw ALL people to be held in this unbreakable embrace that won’t let us go.”’ He held himself in an embrace. Repeating the word, ‘all,’ over and over again, Tutu described all the different groups of people there are, the opposites, emphasising that God loves ALL. Finally, speaking to the bishop-elect, he said, ‘… [P]lease tell the children of God that each one of them is precious. Each one of them is held in this public embrace, each one of them is a member of God’s family. Tell them that, tell them that. Tell them.’ He ended his sermon this way.
Spreading that news of God’s love to all belongs to you and me, too, not just to a bishop. We all are charged to tell others about God’s unbreakable embrace, that agape Love that died and rose for us so that we might have eternal life. We may do so through lunches, we may through our worship, but please make sure this message goes beyond these walls to a community that so desperately needs to hear it... to a community that is starving.
END NOTES
Exegetical portion from Wes Howard-Brook, Becoming Children of God (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1994), 464-78.
Sara Miles, Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion (NY, NY: Ballentine Books, 2007).
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Easter Day sermon
The women knew the drill. Up early in the morning with ointments to prepare the bodies of the dead. Taking something precious and dear to restore dignity to those who had been executed by the Roman authorities. Perhaps they take nard, that sweet fragrant oil, ready to anoint the bodies. In the other gospels, a group of women go to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body.
Mary, though, in the gospel of John, does not seem to come prepared with oil. She comes alone, not in the company of women. She walks in the dark of the morning, that vulnerable time of day when the earth is still waking up, when the day’s potential is but a dream. For her, coming to mourn her teacher, Jesus, surely the day holds nothing but sorrow.
And then she sees the great stone rolled back. Maybe she was the Mary who, along with Martha, stood at the stone in front of Lazarus’ tomb a little while earlier. Her sister, Martha, well aware that Lazarus had been dead four days warned Jesus, who was about to roll the stone away, that there would be a stench. So Mary Magdalene, seeing the stone rolled back, must have recoiled instinctively.
But only for a second. She knows. She does not even need to see. And she runs, runs as fast as she can go back to Peter and the other disciples, telling them Jesus’ body is not there. Peter and the other disciple, presumably John, not trusting a woman’s words, run to the tomb, racing one another. They look in, see the linens on the ground, no corpse and believe, though they do not understand exactly what they believe. Then they leave trying to outrun one another.
Mary Magdalene remains, weeping. Her posture of grief ultimately leads her to a revelation the men do not receive in their haste to get back to the others. The second time Mary looks into the tomb, she sees two angels, one sitting where Jesus’ head had been; the other where his feet had been. They ask her why she is weeping. She answers that her teacher’s body is gone. She then turns around and sees Jesus. In her grief, she does not recognise him at first. He asks her the same question, with tenderness: Woman, why are you crying? Her grief blinds her to his identity but she is insistent in her task: I must find Jesus’ body.
Then Jesus calls her by name and she answers, now understanding that she is speaking to the risen Christ. Not only does he restore her identity, but he gives her a new one: that of an apostle, the first apostle to witness to Christ’s resurrection. He tells her to go tell the others he has risen. Then she runs off.
+
As these things take place, new words break out of the silence of Holy Saturday and touch the hearts and the minds of the men and women who have known and loved Jesus. These words are: ‘He has risen, risen indeed.’ They are not shouted from the rooftops or carried around the city on big placards. They are whispered from ear to ear as an intimate message that could be truly heard and understood only by a heart that has been yearning for the coming of the Kingdom and has recognized its first signs in the words and deeds of the man from Nazareth.
All is different and all is same for those who say ‘Yes’ to the news that is whispered through the ages from one end of the world to the other. Trees are still trees, rivers are still rivers, mountains are still mountains, and people in their hearts are still able to choose between love and fear. But all that has been lifted up in the risen body of Jesus and placed at the right hand of God. The prodigal child is placed in the loving embrace of the Father; the little child is put in its mother’s arms; … brothers and sisters invited to the same table. All is the same, and all is made new. As we live our lives with a resurrection faith, our burdens become light burdens and our yokes easy yokes because we have found rest in the gentle and humble heart of Jesus that belongs for all eternity to God.
+
‘Woman, why do you cry? Man, why do you cry? Child, why do you cry?’ The risen Jesus asks that question to each one of us this Easter morning. In his gentle asking, he invites us to let go of what makes us ache, what weighs us down.
There is plenty in this world that causes us to tremble. We watch the continued deterioration and violence in the Middle East, and find ourselves in the seventh year of a ‘war’ with Iraq and Afghanistan that seems to have no end. We know that even five years later the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina continue to influence heavily the lives of our sisters and brothers in Louisiana and Mississippi. Racism sadly still is alive and well in our country. And then there are the personal burdens that many of us carry with us — family member’s or friend’s precarious health, job insecurity, recent deaths of lovers, dreams and hopes, and even the sense that the weather is pretty weird these days, thank you very much.
There is plenty in this world to make us want to hide, to say ‘no,’ to live in a world of deadened possibilities, to live in a state of fear.
But that is not how we, as people of the resurrection, are called to live. On this Easter morning, we can rejoice, through our tears, that those deaths in our lives have been resurrected with Christ. Jesus calls us by name, dries our tears, and invites us to believe in the God of Hope.
+
Rather than live in a world of ‘no’s, this Easter morning we are invited to say, ‘Yes.’ To say ‘Yes’ is to make a leap of faith, to risk oneself in a new and often scary relationship. Not being quite sure of what we are doing, or where it will lead us, we try on the ‘Yes’. In a world that is so marked by ‘no’s, we are called to say ‘Yes’ to the good news of restoration, reconciliation, and resurrection. Like Mary Magdalene, Jesus calls us to say…
• ‘Yes’ to understanding that part of our identity is a child of God, marked and sealed as Christ’s own through the sacrament of baptism
• ‘Yes’ to proclaiming the gospel, participating in the prayers of the church, seeking and serving Christ.
• ‘Yes’ to recognising Christ in one another
• ‘Yes’ to change, to possibilities, to growth, to new birth.
• ‘Yes‘ — to whatever Christ calls us to do.
• ‘Yes’ to trust in God’s ways, though they are not always clear to us.
• ‘Yes’ to be people of faith, of hope, of the resurrection.
Bishop Barahona of El Salvador in an Easter message wrote:
‘The resurrection is the hope of the Christian community. With the resurrection, Jesus invites us to a project of hope and to change our lives. It is time of the resurrection; the third day has arrived, Easter has arrived. What have we done for our brothers and sisters, for our own lives? What have we done with Jesus’ project? It is time to re-examine ourselves and act so that leaders and the led are filled with hope in order to offer hope in others.’
That is what the resurrection means for us. We have been raised to new life! And that new life resounds with abundant ‘Yes-s’! We, too, like Mary, can run off to proclaim to others how the risen Christ has touched us, wiped away our tears, changed us, and given us hope.
As people of the resurrection, let us be those who raise things that have been cast down; make new things which have grown old; and be those who proclaim out with loud voice, ‘Yes! Christ has risen, the Lord has risen, indeed! Alleluia!’
Mary, though, in the gospel of John, does not seem to come prepared with oil. She comes alone, not in the company of women. She walks in the dark of the morning, that vulnerable time of day when the earth is still waking up, when the day’s potential is but a dream. For her, coming to mourn her teacher, Jesus, surely the day holds nothing but sorrow.
And then she sees the great stone rolled back. Maybe she was the Mary who, along with Martha, stood at the stone in front of Lazarus’ tomb a little while earlier. Her sister, Martha, well aware that Lazarus had been dead four days warned Jesus, who was about to roll the stone away, that there would be a stench. So Mary Magdalene, seeing the stone rolled back, must have recoiled instinctively.
But only for a second. She knows. She does not even need to see. And she runs, runs as fast as she can go back to Peter and the other disciples, telling them Jesus’ body is not there. Peter and the other disciple, presumably John, not trusting a woman’s words, run to the tomb, racing one another. They look in, see the linens on the ground, no corpse and believe, though they do not understand exactly what they believe. Then they leave trying to outrun one another.
Mary Magdalene remains, weeping. Her posture of grief ultimately leads her to a revelation the men do not receive in their haste to get back to the others. The second time Mary looks into the tomb, she sees two angels, one sitting where Jesus’ head had been; the other where his feet had been. They ask her why she is weeping. She answers that her teacher’s body is gone. She then turns around and sees Jesus. In her grief, she does not recognise him at first. He asks her the same question, with tenderness: Woman, why are you crying? Her grief blinds her to his identity but she is insistent in her task: I must find Jesus’ body.
Then Jesus calls her by name and she answers, now understanding that she is speaking to the risen Christ. Not only does he restore her identity, but he gives her a new one: that of an apostle, the first apostle to witness to Christ’s resurrection. He tells her to go tell the others he has risen. Then she runs off.
+
As these things take place, new words break out of the silence of Holy Saturday and touch the hearts and the minds of the men and women who have known and loved Jesus. These words are: ‘He has risen, risen indeed.’ They are not shouted from the rooftops or carried around the city on big placards. They are whispered from ear to ear as an intimate message that could be truly heard and understood only by a heart that has been yearning for the coming of the Kingdom and has recognized its first signs in the words and deeds of the man from Nazareth.
All is different and all is same for those who say ‘Yes’ to the news that is whispered through the ages from one end of the world to the other. Trees are still trees, rivers are still rivers, mountains are still mountains, and people in their hearts are still able to choose between love and fear. But all that has been lifted up in the risen body of Jesus and placed at the right hand of God. The prodigal child is placed in the loving embrace of the Father; the little child is put in its mother’s arms; … brothers and sisters invited to the same table. All is the same, and all is made new. As we live our lives with a resurrection faith, our burdens become light burdens and our yokes easy yokes because we have found rest in the gentle and humble heart of Jesus that belongs for all eternity to God.
+
‘Woman, why do you cry? Man, why do you cry? Child, why do you cry?’ The risen Jesus asks that question to each one of us this Easter morning. In his gentle asking, he invites us to let go of what makes us ache, what weighs us down.
There is plenty in this world that causes us to tremble. We watch the continued deterioration and violence in the Middle East, and find ourselves in the seventh year of a ‘war’ with Iraq and Afghanistan that seems to have no end. We know that even five years later the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina continue to influence heavily the lives of our sisters and brothers in Louisiana and Mississippi. Racism sadly still is alive and well in our country. And then there are the personal burdens that many of us carry with us — family member’s or friend’s precarious health, job insecurity, recent deaths of lovers, dreams and hopes, and even the sense that the weather is pretty weird these days, thank you very much.
There is plenty in this world to make us want to hide, to say ‘no,’ to live in a world of deadened possibilities, to live in a state of fear.
But that is not how we, as people of the resurrection, are called to live. On this Easter morning, we can rejoice, through our tears, that those deaths in our lives have been resurrected with Christ. Jesus calls us by name, dries our tears, and invites us to believe in the God of Hope.
+
Rather than live in a world of ‘no’s, this Easter morning we are invited to say, ‘Yes.’ To say ‘Yes’ is to make a leap of faith, to risk oneself in a new and often scary relationship. Not being quite sure of what we are doing, or where it will lead us, we try on the ‘Yes’. In a world that is so marked by ‘no’s, we are called to say ‘Yes’ to the good news of restoration, reconciliation, and resurrection. Like Mary Magdalene, Jesus calls us to say…
• ‘Yes’ to understanding that part of our identity is a child of God, marked and sealed as Christ’s own through the sacrament of baptism
• ‘Yes’ to proclaiming the gospel, participating in the prayers of the church, seeking and serving Christ.
• ‘Yes’ to recognising Christ in one another
• ‘Yes’ to change, to possibilities, to growth, to new birth.
• ‘Yes‘ — to whatever Christ calls us to do.
• ‘Yes’ to trust in God’s ways, though they are not always clear to us.
• ‘Yes’ to be people of faith, of hope, of the resurrection.
Bishop Barahona of El Salvador in an Easter message wrote:
‘The resurrection is the hope of the Christian community. With the resurrection, Jesus invites us to a project of hope and to change our lives. It is time of the resurrection; the third day has arrived, Easter has arrived. What have we done for our brothers and sisters, for our own lives? What have we done with Jesus’ project? It is time to re-examine ourselves and act so that leaders and the led are filled with hope in order to offer hope in others.’
That is what the resurrection means for us. We have been raised to new life! And that new life resounds with abundant ‘Yes-s’! We, too, like Mary, can run off to proclaim to others how the risen Christ has touched us, wiped away our tears, changed us, and given us hope.
As people of the resurrection, let us be those who raise things that have been cast down; make new things which have grown old; and be those who proclaim out with loud voice, ‘Yes! Christ has risen, the Lord has risen, indeed! Alleluia!’
Great Vigil of Easter sermon
Just yesterday morning during my watch I sat in the chapel by the altar. The sacrament that we blessed on Maundy Thursday, that we later consumed just last night, sat in the middle of the altar, surrounded by seven eight-day votives, and four ten-hour votives. The candles in the short blue holders flickered and, as the two hours went by, went out one by one.
Casting my eyes from my spot in the back pew, I saw the other vestiges of Good Friday, the empty tomb. The most powerful reminder of the death of Jesus lies in the aumbry door left wide open with its white linen interior there for all to see. The votive above the altar no longer has a candle. That space is utterly bare, void of Jesus’ presence. It is heart-breaking.
Save the fans of the heaters turning on and shutting off, the chapel is utterly still. Tomb-like, quiet. Empty. The church even more so with its bare altar, washed clean on Maundy Thursday.
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Just this morning, a few of us, like the women, came back to the tomb, in the stillness of the morning, in the darkness of the day. We prayed:
O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
And then we said together the second anthem that is prayed at the beginning of the burial office:
In the midst of life we are in death;
from whom can we seek help?
Holy God, Holy and Mighty,
Holy and merciful Savior,
deliver us not into the bitterness of eternal death.
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And now… we have journeyed a very long way to reach this point wherein we, like the women, stand in front of this empty tomb. We don’t quite know what it means for us. Confronting the mystery of the resurrection should leave us wordless because it doesn’t make sense. How can we be happy about an empty tomb when we want to see our Lord again?
Perhaps putting ourselves back into the place of the women who gathered that first morning at the tomb in the early light of morning might help.
Elizabeth McAllister writes of this moment:
Imagine the feelings of the women. It is a terrible moment, swirling with apathy, betrayal, overwhelming odds, oppression, and senseless suffering. Jesus had promised so much — where is it now? It seems so long ago.
The weight of the powers of this world and their inertia (or worse) forces us to concede that the world can’t be transformed! It is also a bitter journey for these women…. [But] the tomb is sealed shut by a huge boulder. Put there by the authorities to certify Jesus’ death, the stone also serves to ensure the women’s separation from him. They aren’t even granted the presence of his corpse to comfort them in their ritual of mourning. It is the final ignominy.
But then there’s an earthquake, an angel, guards frozen in fear! This is the kairos moment, an aperture of hope that the story might have a future after all. Like the tomb, the story has been reopened.… Is it possible that not even the imperial death grip and sealed barricade could put an end to the journey? They are too frightened to think, too joyful to stand still. What is this all about?
Amazingly, it is an invitation to follow him again. Resume the way. And resume it, knowing what the consequences may be…. From within the old human being, guarded and barricaded and securely sealed, a new person is emerging. (1)
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We, like the women, face a new future tonight, a future where death cannot hold us, where we are made new. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for us from all eternity and tonight we get a glimpse of it as we stand by the empty tomb.
As we look into that empty tomb, realising that Christ has risen, where do we find that kairos moment, that moment of hope that has been offered to us? How do we follow Jesus again? Where are we surprised by joy? And how do we proclaim that Christ is risen?
Each of us will find our way and answers to these questions this Easter-tide. Our journey begins anew tonight. Let us proclaim boldly, then, without fear but joyfully, Christ is risen, the Lord is risen indeed — Alleluia.
END NOTE
(1) Megan McKenna, And Morning Came: Scriptures of the Resurrection (Lanham, MD: Sheed and Ward, 2003), 77-78.
Casting my eyes from my spot in the back pew, I saw the other vestiges of Good Friday, the empty tomb. The most powerful reminder of the death of Jesus lies in the aumbry door left wide open with its white linen interior there for all to see. The votive above the altar no longer has a candle. That space is utterly bare, void of Jesus’ presence. It is heart-breaking.
Save the fans of the heaters turning on and shutting off, the chapel is utterly still. Tomb-like, quiet. Empty. The church even more so with its bare altar, washed clean on Maundy Thursday.
+
Just this morning, a few of us, like the women, came back to the tomb, in the stillness of the morning, in the darkness of the day. We prayed:
O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
And then we said together the second anthem that is prayed at the beginning of the burial office:
In the midst of life we are in death;
from whom can we seek help?
Holy God, Holy and Mighty,
Holy and merciful Savior,
deliver us not into the bitterness of eternal death.
+
And now… we have journeyed a very long way to reach this point wherein we, like the women, stand in front of this empty tomb. We don’t quite know what it means for us. Confronting the mystery of the resurrection should leave us wordless because it doesn’t make sense. How can we be happy about an empty tomb when we want to see our Lord again?
Perhaps putting ourselves back into the place of the women who gathered that first morning at the tomb in the early light of morning might help.
Elizabeth McAllister writes of this moment:
Imagine the feelings of the women. It is a terrible moment, swirling with apathy, betrayal, overwhelming odds, oppression, and senseless suffering. Jesus had promised so much — where is it now? It seems so long ago.
The weight of the powers of this world and their inertia (or worse) forces us to concede that the world can’t be transformed! It is also a bitter journey for these women…. [But] the tomb is sealed shut by a huge boulder. Put there by the authorities to certify Jesus’ death, the stone also serves to ensure the women’s separation from him. They aren’t even granted the presence of his corpse to comfort them in their ritual of mourning. It is the final ignominy.
But then there’s an earthquake, an angel, guards frozen in fear! This is the kairos moment, an aperture of hope that the story might have a future after all. Like the tomb, the story has been reopened.… Is it possible that not even the imperial death grip and sealed barricade could put an end to the journey? They are too frightened to think, too joyful to stand still. What is this all about?
Amazingly, it is an invitation to follow him again. Resume the way. And resume it, knowing what the consequences may be…. From within the old human being, guarded and barricaded and securely sealed, a new person is emerging. (1)
+
We, like the women, face a new future tonight, a future where death cannot hold us, where we are made new. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for us from all eternity and tonight we get a glimpse of it as we stand by the empty tomb.
As we look into that empty tomb, realising that Christ has risen, where do we find that kairos moment, that moment of hope that has been offered to us? How do we follow Jesus again? Where are we surprised by joy? And how do we proclaim that Christ is risen?
Each of us will find our way and answers to these questions this Easter-tide. Our journey begins anew tonight. Let us proclaim boldly, then, without fear but joyfully, Christ is risen, the Lord is risen indeed — Alleluia.
END NOTE
(1) Megan McKenna, And Morning Came: Scriptures of the Resurrection (Lanham, MD: Sheed and Ward, 2003), 77-78.
Good Friday sermon
On 4 November 1966 Florence, Italy suffered one of its devastating floods — I say ‘one’ because the city has been prone to flooding throughout its history. In this particular case, a low-pressure system had stalled over Italy for six weeks and on 3 November it began to rain… again. In twenty-four hours nearly 19 inches of rain fell on the already-sodden city. (Residents of CT, MA and RI can commiserate.)
At the height of the flooding, water moved at the rate of forty miles per hour at the height of twenty-four feet. At 7.26 a.m., all of Florence’s civic clocks stopped. The resulting 600.000 tons of sludge, muck, oil, sewage and debris, represented in 12 feet of mud, covered the precious art works of the famed city.
A fairly unknown, hitherto ignored piece of art, the 13th-century Cimabue’s Crocifisso, was one of the many victims. The cross hung high in a refectory of the monastery of Santa Croce. One of the priests of the order went into the monastery and saw the ‘Cimbue Crucifix, looming over the waters of the refectory like the creator spirit. Or rather like God reduced to shreds. It was… “in tatters, the flesh ripped off up to the face,” Christ crucified and then drowned.’ (1) Since none of the witnesses are still alive, no one knows really what happened — was the cross attached to the wall or found floating face down in the murky lagoon that now was the refectory? Most say it was still hanging and the moisture was causing the paint to flake off into the murk.
I remember seeing photos of that heavily damaged cross and then watching the progress of its restoration in reports in Life magazine. Somehow, the damage struck me even as a nine year-old. I can’t explain to you why it had that impact on me but it did. More than forty years later, I think one of the visceral reactions I had was that of the restorers taking the cross down from the wall, taking Christ’s body from where it hung and putting it into a tomb of sorts, the place where it would be restored.
Robert Clark in Dark Water, writes: When the restorers saw the cross, attached to the wall with corroded metal, they realised ‘the cross would have to be cut down like a tree.’ The ‘deposition’ ‘took fifteen men and yards of rope to bring the Crocifisso down. Sodden, it weighed over a thousand pounds)…. Cimabue had milled and joined the four-inch thick planks of poplar to be strong, but no one knew how strong….’ They were afraid the cross would collapse under its weight. Life magazine’s David ‘Lees photographed the straining, grimacing men bearing the weight of the cross — itself bearing the weight of the world, Francis would have said — as a fury of labor, of suffering posed against suffering.’ (2)
Perhaps it was the first time that nine-year old had thought about Christ’s death. It was a real-life event, enacted by living people. The cross was no longer an abstract thing but a central element of her Christian faith, even as only a nine-year old can articulate it. How much more understanding thereof has come over the decades? How much has your understanding of the cross increased over time?
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The crucifixion has long captured the attention of artists — trying to render visually what it means to worship a tortured man. However, it was not actually until the fifth century, a century after the Roman state had discontinued the practise of crucifixion and no one living had witnessed such a horror, that Christians had sufficiently forgotten the shame and horror of it to begin to make pictures of it. By the time they started making pictures, many of the gruesome details of crucifixion had been forgotten and, instead, Christ was depicted as already resurrected. Still, artists over time have struggled to portray an event that is so hard to grasp. But no matter how hard they and we try, how do we enter into the ‘night of the absolute’ (Kierkegaard)?
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Every year, Good Friday forces us to confront the question about suffering. A servant suffers on behalf of others. A psalmist despairs of being utterly and inexplicably abandoned by God. Jesus is crucified and buried. Such are the lessons for to-day, but underlying all of them is this one question:
Why was it necessary for Christ to suffer on the cross and die in the first place?
Kenneth Leech author of We Preach Christ Crucified, believes that proclamation of the crucified God, the suffering God, is essential to our belief and existence. The cross often speaks to people, even soothes them, and transforms them because they find in the crucified Christ a source of hope. Perhaps that hope comes from an interior knowledge that healing of pain is a process within the heart of God. ‘There must have been a Calvary in the heart of God before it was planted on the hill of Golgotha.’ Indeed, God could have only suffered on the cross because God was already that sort of God, a passionate, suffering God. (3)
The South African theologian, Manas Buthelezi states, ‘Oppressive suffering does not belong to the category of the suffering of Christ on the cross. Christ’s suffering on the cross was redemptive. It was for the sake of others beyond the self. It was suffering which was occasioned by love and the circumstances of the other.… On the cross God transformed the experience of suffering at the hands of unprovoked violence, vengeance and death into a vehicle of divine love and restoration to new life. […]
‘It is a misunderstanding to associate the sufferings of Christ only with Good Friday. His whole life was a life of suffering and bearing other people’s burdens. To care about other people’s problems in addition to your own can be a heavy burden indeed. To care only about yourself and your problems can make life very simple. But once you allow other people’s problems to worry you and to create an impact upon your life, then you end up suffering with them. That is redemptive suffering. When you allow even your own suffering to become a window through which you gain access to the suffering of others, that is vicarious living. This is the meaning of the cross. This is to take up one’s cross and follow Christ.’ (4)
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Suffering with others, walking with others bearing their burdens, understanding that God suffers, too, that the cross was God’s ultimate suffering — not that God chose to kill God’s only son — those are some of the messages of Good Friday.
We dare to come close to these truths because deep inside, we yearn to know that the cross is not the end of our story any more than the empty grave is. Even as this Good Friday liturgy moves us closer and closer to the grave, we have reminders of hope. And, so, as we come close to the cross, we also come close to that hope — God’s expression of love for us, God’s reconciliation, God’s mercy.
As we come nearer to Jesus’ cross and what it means as an expression of life-giving forgiveness and love, let us become free in this cross, in this dying and in this love. May we find in the cross not an end but a beginning, not something evil but something graceful. May we find there our brother, Jesus, who came to be amongst us, lived with us and died for us.
For on this day called Good, the cross is not the last word. The resurrection is. Even as we face the bleakness of this day, a day when things may be murky as those flood waters in Florence once were, may we hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering.
End Notes
1 Robert Clark, Dark Water: Flood and Redemption in the City of Masterpieces (NY: Doubleday, 2008), 158-59.
2 Ibid., 169.
(3) Kenneth Leech, We Preach Christ Crucified (Cambridge, MA: Cowley, 1994), 27.
(4) Manas Buthelezi, ‘Violence and the Cross in South Africa Today,’ Journal of Theology for Southern Africa, no 29, December 1979, 51ff. Cited in John de Gtuchy, Cry Justice! (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1986), 204, 206.

Maundy Thursday
Six years ago while on sabbatical I spent Holy Week at Saint Helena’s in Vails Gate, NY, a place that no longer exists except in memory. I have gone there over the years, not nearly as often as I would like though, so spending that week seemed particularly apt. I had always wondered how a monastic community lived out the rhythm of such an intense week and I was curious about how they handled the complexities of the liturgies of the Triduum, the Great Three Days, into which we have now entered.
Alongside the regular daily offices of Matins, Diurnum (noonday prayers), Vespers and Compline, obviously displaced by one of the main liturgies when appropriate, the community observed these days in their own fashion.
Maundy Thursday was a completely new experience for me. All afternoon guests and sisters spent time moving the furniture around in the refectory, so that we could turn the tables into a large ‘U.’ Extra chairs went into the sitting room. We got out place mats and even wine glasses and set the table, rather than having each person set her place as is customary.
And then, the liturgy itself…
We gathered in the refectory at 5.00 and started out with the liturgy of the word. Most of the sisters were in their formal habits. We sat down at the tables and listened to the lessons. After the gospel we moved into the foot washing and a sister from Ghana washed my feet. I couldn’t stand not doing anything so I eventually washed another guest’s feet. I had to do something. (Remember, I was on sabbatical!)
Then we had dinner: dried fruit, cheese, nuts, cherry tomatoes, celery, carrots, bread, and soup. We broke the week-long silence to talk, my first conversations with anyone since arriving there. We laughed as we talked about daily life. It was an ordinary conversation, just at an extraordinary moment. We washed it all down with wine. And then we cleared the table and moved into the eucharist celebrated at the same table where we had eaten. We communicated each other… and then just bread was reserved for the next day.
At the close of the eucharist, we processed from the refectory to the sacristy by way of the cloister… one of the two priests of the order carried the ciborium. We left the senior priest and an associate in the sacristy at the altar of repose and then we went into the chapel for the stripping of the altar and chapel.
Perhaps what was the most impressive was their taking down the four votives that hovered over the altar, one on each corner. Bing, bing, first one side comes down (by way of a hooked pole), then whup, up goes that empty side so the other side can come down… all four were unceremoniously removed and their empty holders left swinging crazily for the next ten minutes. Then down from the circle of doves suspended over the centre of the altar came the reserve sacrament. I had only heard the previous week that it resided in the orb that hangs over the altar. Indeed, all that was in the aumbry is the winch to raise and lower the sphere. The younger priest consumed what was in there, left the top of the orb (crowned with a cross) on the altar and then winched the half circle to a point half-way between the altar and the doves. Everything was left in suspended animation.
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Whether we do the whole nine-yards of liturgy — meal, footwashing, eucharist, stripping of the altar and watch — or just portions of it, two things stand out about Maundy Thursday: the paradox of the night, and second, the state of suspended animation into which we enter.
First, the paradox of the night. So much of what we observe, say, and do during Holy Week from Palm Sunday to Easter is paradoxical. Even tonight, as we move into the depth of mystery that this yearly journey entails, we bounce back and forth between a sense of normalcy and sadness. The Gloria and white vestments return because we are celebrating the institution of the eucharist and the giving of the commandment to love one another as Christ has loved us. We burn incense, always associated with feast days. We partake of this meal that is so celebratory, that is the foundation of our life together.
And yet…
At the same time, we know what is coming. We know in our hearts as we remember the last supper, the meal at which Jesus was confronted by the betrayal of one of his own disciples, the meal at which he finally spoke of what this whole journey had been for him, in words that we repeat week in and week out:
This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.
Whenever you do this, do this in remembrance of me.
We celebrate, we do what he told us to do, we remember and tonight, it all has its poignancy because of the context in which we celebrate this liturgy.
We know where this all leads: the betrayal, the cross, the tomb, the resurrection. We have to walk through all of this (though there are those who clearly want to skip it all).
And so we encounter the second element of Maundy Thursday, the sense of being in suspended animation. Unlike our usual Sunday communion service, we leave this one open-ended. There is no blessing, no dismissal. Everything is left where we stopped: the bare altar, the open aumbry, the empty candle holder. The only thing that will mark the passage through the hours are the candles at the altar of repose that will burn down until someone in the wee hours of the morning blows them out.
Meanwhile, we wait even as we walk through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. It is night, the night of betrayal mixed in with redemption.
Lord, it is night.
The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God.
The night is dark.
Let our fears of the darkness in the world and of our own lives rest in you…
[New Zealand Prayer Book, 184]
Let us not be afraid tonight to dwell in these paradoxes, this space of suspended animation, where votive holders swing crazily, because we know in our hearts that it is always darkest before the dawn.
Alongside the regular daily offices of Matins, Diurnum (noonday prayers), Vespers and Compline, obviously displaced by one of the main liturgies when appropriate, the community observed these days in their own fashion.
Maundy Thursday was a completely new experience for me. All afternoon guests and sisters spent time moving the furniture around in the refectory, so that we could turn the tables into a large ‘U.’ Extra chairs went into the sitting room. We got out place mats and even wine glasses and set the table, rather than having each person set her place as is customary.
And then, the liturgy itself…
We gathered in the refectory at 5.00 and started out with the liturgy of the word. Most of the sisters were in their formal habits. We sat down at the tables and listened to the lessons. After the gospel we moved into the foot washing and a sister from Ghana washed my feet. I couldn’t stand not doing anything so I eventually washed another guest’s feet. I had to do something. (Remember, I was on sabbatical!)
Then we had dinner: dried fruit, cheese, nuts, cherry tomatoes, celery, carrots, bread, and soup. We broke the week-long silence to talk, my first conversations with anyone since arriving there. We laughed as we talked about daily life. It was an ordinary conversation, just at an extraordinary moment. We washed it all down with wine. And then we cleared the table and moved into the eucharist celebrated at the same table where we had eaten. We communicated each other… and then just bread was reserved for the next day.
At the close of the eucharist, we processed from the refectory to the sacristy by way of the cloister… one of the two priests of the order carried the ciborium. We left the senior priest and an associate in the sacristy at the altar of repose and then we went into the chapel for the stripping of the altar and chapel.
Perhaps what was the most impressive was their taking down the four votives that hovered over the altar, one on each corner. Bing, bing, first one side comes down (by way of a hooked pole), then whup, up goes that empty side so the other side can come down… all four were unceremoniously removed and their empty holders left swinging crazily for the next ten minutes. Then down from the circle of doves suspended over the centre of the altar came the reserve sacrament. I had only heard the previous week that it resided in the orb that hangs over the altar. Indeed, all that was in the aumbry is the winch to raise and lower the sphere. The younger priest consumed what was in there, left the top of the orb (crowned with a cross) on the altar and then winched the half circle to a point half-way between the altar and the doves. Everything was left in suspended animation.
+
Whether we do the whole nine-yards of liturgy — meal, footwashing, eucharist, stripping of the altar and watch — or just portions of it, two things stand out about Maundy Thursday: the paradox of the night, and second, the state of suspended animation into which we enter.
First, the paradox of the night. So much of what we observe, say, and do during Holy Week from Palm Sunday to Easter is paradoxical. Even tonight, as we move into the depth of mystery that this yearly journey entails, we bounce back and forth between a sense of normalcy and sadness. The Gloria and white vestments return because we are celebrating the institution of the eucharist and the giving of the commandment to love one another as Christ has loved us. We burn incense, always associated with feast days. We partake of this meal that is so celebratory, that is the foundation of our life together.
And yet…
At the same time, we know what is coming. We know in our hearts as we remember the last supper, the meal at which Jesus was confronted by the betrayal of one of his own disciples, the meal at which he finally spoke of what this whole journey had been for him, in words that we repeat week in and week out:
This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.
Whenever you do this, do this in remembrance of me.
We celebrate, we do what he told us to do, we remember and tonight, it all has its poignancy because of the context in which we celebrate this liturgy.
We know where this all leads: the betrayal, the cross, the tomb, the resurrection. We have to walk through all of this (though there are those who clearly want to skip it all).
And so we encounter the second element of Maundy Thursday, the sense of being in suspended animation. Unlike our usual Sunday communion service, we leave this one open-ended. There is no blessing, no dismissal. Everything is left where we stopped: the bare altar, the open aumbry, the empty candle holder. The only thing that will mark the passage through the hours are the candles at the altar of repose that will burn down until someone in the wee hours of the morning blows them out.
Meanwhile, we wait even as we walk through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. It is night, the night of betrayal mixed in with redemption.
Lord, it is night.
The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God.
The night is dark.
Let our fears of the darkness in the world and of our own lives rest in you…
[New Zealand Prayer Book, 184]
Let us not be afraid tonight to dwell in these paradoxes, this space of suspended animation, where votive holders swing crazily, because we know in our hearts that it is always darkest before the dawn.
Wednesday of Holy Week
As kids, we were only allowed to watch an hour of television a day between 5.00 and 6.00. By the time my sister, brother and I had settled on a show, we’d already missed the first five minutes of it. In any event, my recollections of shows are few but one Superman adventure has always stuck in my mind — for whatever reason, don’t ask me why.
All I can remember of it and my memories are a bit foggy (from having seen it probably at age 5 or 6) is that Lois Lane and another man have been put into a cellar by the evildoers. All of a sudden the walls begin to move inward and it is clear that they are going to be crushed by this horrible vice. The walls get closer and closer and they try to keep them from advancing by holding the walls apart with their feet on one side and back on the other but the walls are stronger than they are. The walls keep moving and moving… until Superman swoops down and holds them apart long enough for the two of them to climb out (somehow). As I said, I don’t remember the details too well.
This is how my heart feels when we reach this point of the week and hear Jesus’ words to the disciples, ‘Little children, I am with you only a little longer.’ And the difference between the Superman show and the gospel is that no magical person is going to swoop down out of the sky and pull Jesus off the cross. Jesus, fully knowing what will happen to him, walks into his death foretold and does so gently and graciously.
Here he is, at his last meal with his disciples, who are his friends. His best friend, perhaps John, always called the ‘beloved disciple,’ rests next to him. They share a meal but unlike the meal that Jesus has had with his friends Lazarus, Martha and Mary, there is nothing gentle or sweet. Jesus’ spirit is troubled and he reveals to the disciples what it is with the shocking words: ‘Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me.’
Those words are as much a vice around the heart as the knowledge that he is going to die. The disciples are clueless about what is going on and they certainly do not want to be the one who will betray their master and friend.
Jesus makes clear who it will be to betray him by dipping his piece of bread in the dish and giving it to Judas. It seems strange that bread should be the indicator of betrayal for shortly Jesus will take bread again and give it to his disciples, telling them it is his body given for them.
Even as his heart breaks, Jesus speaks to the disciples about loving one another. His giving them the new commandment will result in his washing their feet, the ultimate act of humility and service.
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How does Jesus do it? How does he remain so calm, so present, so with it in the face of not only his impending death but also the reality of Judas’ betrayal?
Betrayal—literally, to hand over, to deceive, to lead astray, to fail to meet the hopes of someone—elicits powerful emotions. At some point or another in life, we betray someone or are betrayed by someone or an institution, like the church. Betrayal happens on many levels and though it can be around something inconsequential, the nature and results of betrayal are never inconsequential.
Whether one is the betrayer or the betrayed, when the situation comes to light, one’s life can be turned upside-down, shattered and seemingly destroyed. The vice-like walls of anger, sadness, despair, hopelessness and all the other negative emotions threaten to crush one. Depending on the severity of the betrayal, one can’t function or even think straight. One’s feeling and sense of well-being in the world have been undermined and it seems as though one will never emerge from the weight of it all. Forgiveness can seem so alien in the early stages of revelation of the betrayal that one feels that the walls have already crushed one’s heart and there is no way out, no one to pry the walls apart.
Psalm 41.9 states poignantly the results of betrayal: Even my best friend, whom I trusted, who broke bread with me, has lifted up his heel and turned against me.
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John’s Jesus does not allow those walls of anger and hatred, the result of his being betrayed by Judas, close in on him. He surmounts the agony of betrayal and, instead, in his last hours, teaches the disciples how they ought to live, no matter what, despite the weakness that is so much a part of human nature. He tells them, ‘I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.’
This commandment is perhaps one of the hardest ones to follow if one’s heart is mired in anger, unable to forgive. Forgiveness is not simply a one-time act; it is a gradual process of reducing resentment. It is also, when it involves a person (rather than an institution, though institutions are always made up of individuals), gaining empathy for the other. It comes at the end of a journey of letting go. It is a gift one gives to oneself; it is a choice; it is a process; it is letting go of bitterness and resentment; and it is letting go of the pain. It gives life, it removes whatever obstacle there has been to communion. It is, finally, arriving at the commandment that Jesus gave us, to love one another as he loved us.
Parenthetically, forgiveness does not always lead to reconciliation; reconciliation, a gift from God, may be the ultimate end of the journey but sometimes in life, one only arrives at the point of forgiveness, of letting what ever anger and resentments there are no longer have power over our lives.
Jesus does not desire us to live within the vice-like walls of anger, even when it is justified by being the recipient of an act of betrayal. Instead he beckons us to new life, freed from this negativity. Perhaps understanding how hard it is for humanity to forgive, he gave us not only the example of washing one another's feet but himself.
Jean Vanier says in The Scandal of Service: Jesus Washes Our Feet, ‘These two symbolic acts [washing the disciples’ feet and giving himself up in bread and wine] around the body, his own body and the body of each one of his disciples are gestures of communion and love.… Without the eucharist we cannot live out such a deep presence and communion of the heart with others.’ (1)
Whatever untied, loose ends there are in your life — current or past — offer them up with the bread and the wine, and know that they are transformed and you are made new.
Let Jesus dwell within in you, abide with you, that you might become an instrument of pardon and peace, too… so that one by one, through us, the world might all be reconciled.
END NOTE
(1) New York, NY: Continuum, 1998, 36.
All I can remember of it and my memories are a bit foggy (from having seen it probably at age 5 or 6) is that Lois Lane and another man have been put into a cellar by the evildoers. All of a sudden the walls begin to move inward and it is clear that they are going to be crushed by this horrible vice. The walls get closer and closer and they try to keep them from advancing by holding the walls apart with their feet on one side and back on the other but the walls are stronger than they are. The walls keep moving and moving… until Superman swoops down and holds them apart long enough for the two of them to climb out (somehow). As I said, I don’t remember the details too well.
This is how my heart feels when we reach this point of the week and hear Jesus’ words to the disciples, ‘Little children, I am with you only a little longer.’ And the difference between the Superman show and the gospel is that no magical person is going to swoop down out of the sky and pull Jesus off the cross. Jesus, fully knowing what will happen to him, walks into his death foretold and does so gently and graciously.
Here he is, at his last meal with his disciples, who are his friends. His best friend, perhaps John, always called the ‘beloved disciple,’ rests next to him. They share a meal but unlike the meal that Jesus has had with his friends Lazarus, Martha and Mary, there is nothing gentle or sweet. Jesus’ spirit is troubled and he reveals to the disciples what it is with the shocking words: ‘Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me.’
Those words are as much a vice around the heart as the knowledge that he is going to die. The disciples are clueless about what is going on and they certainly do not want to be the one who will betray their master and friend.
Jesus makes clear who it will be to betray him by dipping his piece of bread in the dish and giving it to Judas. It seems strange that bread should be the indicator of betrayal for shortly Jesus will take bread again and give it to his disciples, telling them it is his body given for them.
Even as his heart breaks, Jesus speaks to the disciples about loving one another. His giving them the new commandment will result in his washing their feet, the ultimate act of humility and service.
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How does Jesus do it? How does he remain so calm, so present, so with it in the face of not only his impending death but also the reality of Judas’ betrayal?
Betrayal—literally, to hand over, to deceive, to lead astray, to fail to meet the hopes of someone—elicits powerful emotions. At some point or another in life, we betray someone or are betrayed by someone or an institution, like the church. Betrayal happens on many levels and though it can be around something inconsequential, the nature and results of betrayal are never inconsequential.
Whether one is the betrayer or the betrayed, when the situation comes to light, one’s life can be turned upside-down, shattered and seemingly destroyed. The vice-like walls of anger, sadness, despair, hopelessness and all the other negative emotions threaten to crush one. Depending on the severity of the betrayal, one can’t function or even think straight. One’s feeling and sense of well-being in the world have been undermined and it seems as though one will never emerge from the weight of it all. Forgiveness can seem so alien in the early stages of revelation of the betrayal that one feels that the walls have already crushed one’s heart and there is no way out, no one to pry the walls apart.
Psalm 41.9 states poignantly the results of betrayal: Even my best friend, whom I trusted, who broke bread with me, has lifted up his heel and turned against me.
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John’s Jesus does not allow those walls of anger and hatred, the result of his being betrayed by Judas, close in on him. He surmounts the agony of betrayal and, instead, in his last hours, teaches the disciples how they ought to live, no matter what, despite the weakness that is so much a part of human nature. He tells them, ‘I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.’
This commandment is perhaps one of the hardest ones to follow if one’s heart is mired in anger, unable to forgive. Forgiveness is not simply a one-time act; it is a gradual process of reducing resentment. It is also, when it involves a person (rather than an institution, though institutions are always made up of individuals), gaining empathy for the other. It comes at the end of a journey of letting go. It is a gift one gives to oneself; it is a choice; it is a process; it is letting go of bitterness and resentment; and it is letting go of the pain. It gives life, it removes whatever obstacle there has been to communion. It is, finally, arriving at the commandment that Jesus gave us, to love one another as he loved us.
Parenthetically, forgiveness does not always lead to reconciliation; reconciliation, a gift from God, may be the ultimate end of the journey but sometimes in life, one only arrives at the point of forgiveness, of letting what ever anger and resentments there are no longer have power over our lives.
Jesus does not desire us to live within the vice-like walls of anger, even when it is justified by being the recipient of an act of betrayal. Instead he beckons us to new life, freed from this negativity. Perhaps understanding how hard it is for humanity to forgive, he gave us not only the example of washing one another's feet but himself.
Jean Vanier says in The Scandal of Service: Jesus Washes Our Feet, ‘These two symbolic acts [washing the disciples’ feet and giving himself up in bread and wine] around the body, his own body and the body of each one of his disciples are gestures of communion and love.… Without the eucharist we cannot live out such a deep presence and communion of the heart with others.’ (1)
Whatever untied, loose ends there are in your life — current or past — offer them up with the bread and the wine, and know that they are transformed and you are made new.
Let Jesus dwell within in you, abide with you, that you might become an instrument of pardon and peace, too… so that one by one, through us, the world might all be reconciled.
END NOTE
(1) New York, NY: Continuum, 1998, 36.