HOMILY AT THE EASTER VIGIL

So, I begin this evening with a confession. Sometimes when I have occasion to do premarital counseling with a couple who have come seeking an officiant at their wedding, I ask them to tell me why they love each other. Isn’t that ridiculous? They tell me of course various things they love about their chosen one—I love his sense of humor, I love the way she cares for others—I love her smile—I love the way he loves me. Whatever! But no one yet has told me why they love the other person. The really important things in life are not that easy to explain. Really. Who can explain the whys of love. Who can even explain how you know that love is love? In our Tuesday morning study group we have just finished reading a book by Desmond Tutu called, God has a Dream. This is a book that affirms that our world is not just a world where Jesus died, but it is a world where Jesus lives. It’s about the resurrection power of God at work. . . Our next study is of a book by Elaine Pagels called Beyond Belief. Cute huh? The juxtaposition of these two books summarizes the challenge and wonder of this night of all nights when we gather to celebrate the resurrection. God’s Dream. . .Beyond Belief. If seeing is believing then its no wonder the resurrection is so often dis-believed. We have no details. It happened at night. No police report. No eye witness accounts. No video footage. Celsus an outside observer of Christianity long ago pointed out that everybody saw Jesus die, but “only a crazed woman and a few fanatics” saw him risen from the dead. And there are many today who can only agree. They might think Jesus a noble sort of fellow—a man of high ethics, a wisdom teacher—but they have to draw the line at resurrection—that is clearly beyond belief. Whatever this story of the risen Jesus is about, it is about these women going to see the tomb where they expect in a reasonable sort of way to find death. Instead, they find themselves at the thin edge—that liminal place between this world and the other. Their eyes so attuned to seeing the expected—the utterly believable--are shocked open to catching a glimpse of the world beyond belief. The world that Desmond Tutu would say is the very real world of God’s dream. People get “hung up” on these resurrection stories. I think perhaps because they apply reasonable expectations and rational thinking to them. They are seeking proof of the resurrection. They want proof of the world beyond belief. Even in the earliest days of Christianity the followers of Christ moved around in this arena of the liminal seeing and believing different things. That’s one of Pagels points in her book. The folks who beheld Jesus saw differently. Their eyes tuned so well to the believable found the going more challenging when dealing with the unbelievable. Some saw Jesus as God incarnate, some followed him as a faithful Jew, some saw him as new humanity, some as the messiah, Some took his words at face value, others tripped over them into more ethereal spaces. There was room in these early days for varieties of understandings. And then of course in the 4th century church leaders saw fit to try and define belief—and draw lines around the real Jesus. They did so in a way that left out a lot of folks who considered themselves followers of Jesus. Battles and even wars have been fought over these understandings. And even today there are a good number of Christians who tell me that they are secret heretics. They have their doubts about certain aspects of the faith as it has been defined. (Even some priests fall into this category of Christian) Generally they feel like they need to keep those to themselves even though the consequences are probably no longer life-threatening. And then there are those followers of Christ who as Barbara Brown Taylor puts it have beheld Jesus and found their own eyesight so richly tuned that they can see glory everywhere they look—they find the divine not only at the ocean or on the mountaintops, but in a sweat lodge, or a mosque, or at the feet of Thich Nhat Hanh. I’ve met more than one Episcopalian who claims to be a Unitarian, Buddhist, Episcopalian. Whatever truth there is in the resurrection, it is NOT to be found in any set of rational beliefs or explanations. We can’t prove the resurrection. We can’t. But we can live into it. We can participate in Christ’s risen life. The resurrection can be found in the lives of the faithful—whether heretics or not—who live in a world in which Christ not only died, but in which he lives. This is a broken world, you and I know that only too well. “Were you there when they crucified my Lord”—“Oh, oh, yes,” we say. That we have seen. That we witness every day. But, the great good news of this night is that brokenness and death even when it is just what we are expecting and looking for—brokenness and death do not have the final word. God’s dream of resurrection life is not some fantasy—rather it is alive and well, and in our midst. The divine energy is at work in us and among us and out there too. The church is the community that lives the dream—however imperfectly, however hesitatingly. We do it as we eat the meal, as we share the love, as we reach out to others, cross unbearable boundaries, speak words of truth not always welcomed, stand firm with the powerless, look at the world with the eyes of the heart. We do it as we support one another in our explorations of the thin edges of life where things are porous and godness pours thru. At our best we gather as we have this night to let our memories, candles, colors, stories, songs, music, laughter, and dance carry us to the dream beyond belief. It’s like trying to explain why you are in love with someone. There is nothing more real. Nothing more important. Nothing more difficult to describe or explain. Nothing more impossible to prove. “Were you there when God raised him from the dead?” “Oh, oh, yes”. Sometimes, it causes me to tremble. tremble. tremble.

A GUIDED MEDITATION: THE PASSION OF MARK

A MEDITATION: MARK’S PASSION NARRATIVE There is a lot of silence in this story. Silence here in the church. In our hearts perhaps. And in the story itself. Some of you may remember the folk duo Simon and Garfunkel. They sang a song,”The Sound of Silence” maybe you remember it. To me this story is all about the sound of silence. And the other sounds as well—the ones that interrupted the silence. Close your eyes now. Sit back and let yourself hear the sounds: . . . of Jesus throwing himself on the ground in the Garden of Gethsemane. . . . of the disciples sleeping. Could they hear the sound of the crowd approaching with their clubs and swords? What did that sound like? Were Judas’ words spoken out loud or whispered? And, if you were standing near Jesus, could you hear the sound of that kiss? Did the slave cry out when his ear was cut off? And what was the sound of the false testimony given against Jesus? Did it ring hollow in your ears? What is the sound of taunting and spitting? Did Jesus cry out when he was beaten? And what about the sounds of Peter’s denials? Do they reverberate in your soul and mix there with your own denials? Peter curses. The cock crows. There are the long pauses after each of Pilate’s questions. The accusations fly. Jesus is silent. Can you actually hear Pilate’s amazement? How does stirring the crowd sound? Does it start like murmuring… how does it build? And the shouting of the crowd? Does it echo thru the streets? How far away can you hear it? Would you recognize the sound of flogging? What is the tone of mockery? Does Simon of Cyrene demur, or does he just silently pick up the cross and follow? The sounds of the crucifixion. . . .The derision. The taunting of the men crucified beside him, what in God’s name would that sound like? Jesus crying out those words from Psalm 22,”My God my God why have your forsaken me? Silence. The sour wine scooped up in the sponge on the stick. Can you hear its dripping? The loud cry. The final breath. Silence. These are the sounds of our own world. We know these sound--many of them. We hardly dare let ourselves hear them. Hardly dare let them into our hearts. Hardly do we dare to let them penetrate. Our ears are mostly covered or tuned to other frequencies. The sound of silence--The silence not really so much about God’s absence as God’s presence. God’s withness to the depths of life. The silence of one taking a breath just when you do. There is silence. The curtain of the temple torn in two. Can you hear the ripping? The rending. Silence. Torn apart. Opened up. God no longer hidden. The Holy of holies no longer sheltered and apart. No longer only for the high priest to enter. God among us. Torn apart. Ripped open. Silence. “Truly this man was God’s son.”

SERMON 4.2.06

Is your own death, your own fragility something you think about? Is it something you live with in the back of your mind maybe? Do you think about death now more than you did maybe 15 years ago? I ask this because I have realized that I do, and sometimes I think it’s only because I am 15 years older and clearly more likely according to Life Insurance projections to be prone to death. And, I’ve had cancer and once you’ve had cancer I think perhaps you are more likely to live with the sort of ever present reality of death—it sort of hangs around in the atmosphere. But of course I ask the question because in this morning’s gospel reading when the Greeks come to Philip and say, “We wish to see Jesus,” Philip takes Andrew and they tell Jesus. “Some Greeks say they want to see you.” And Jesus begins to talk about his death—and really I think you’d have to say he talks about our death too. Unless the grain of wheat dies it remains a single grain.. . and so forth. If you want to see Jesus I guess you’d better take a look at his death. Jesus’ death is his moment of glory. His moment of revealing God’s glory. We most of us think about glory in such earthly terms—we think of perhaps accomplishing some great thing. Winning the basketball championship. Having a building named after us—or a scholarship—or some notice given in recognition of what we’ve accomplished. Jesus reckons that his death will reveal the glory of God. And, as if that weren’t enough to start you reflecting on death—there’s that line from Hebrews that describes Jesus as learning obedience through what he suffered. I take obedience here to mean what it means in the Greek which is a heightening of the word to hear. Jesus learned to hear God through his suffering. Really hear. Now that’s not very American of him. I mean really. Jesus was an American wasn’t he? . . . Our culture is focused much more on pleasure than pain, on acquiring than letting go. It doesn’t seem right that Jesus drew closer to God through his suffering. We are folks who take aspirin and other drugs to get rid of pain—that’s who we are. Pain is something we try to avoid—even pretend doesn’t exist. And Jesus himself didn’t seem to seek it out—“His soul is troubled he says, and he wonders if he should ask to be saved from his suffering. As my 14 year old granddaughter might say, “Well, duuh!” But no, …no, it is for this reason that he has come to this hour, he says. This hour of death and glory. When God speaks to Jesus about the glory, the crowd around him hears God’s voice but thinks it is thunder—or some say it is an angel. Not everyone has their ears attuned to God’s frequency. But, Jesus who has learned to really hear through his suffering knows exactly what God has said, and says to the people, “When I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” Lifted up we can only imagine on the cross. That’s when those Greeks and all the rest of us will really see him. See Jesus. I’ve been reading a book recently called Feed. Its about a future when every person has a little implanted chip in the brain that feeds in all the advertising and reality shows we’d ever imagine, and allows us to communicate with others like email only no computer is needed. I think of God in Jeremiah’s text implanting divine law and love in us maybe kind of like that feed—only in our hearts instead of our minds. And when I think of that I can only think of Jesus as the one who seems to have had that divine feed embedded deeply within his heart. And always on--its in connection—not to consumer culture but to divinity. To God within. And of course we Christians, we followers of Jesus we’d say that the thing about Jesus is that he shows us who we all are. All of us have that feed—that heart imprint—that chip of divinity within. That’s most deeply who we are. That’s what is proclaimed in our baptism. And, it’s not just you and me—it’s everyone. All people have that imprint within them. The feed. The problem is so often we aren’t even in touch with it. We don’t listen to the feed in our hearts. We listening to other messages—we’re residing in our brains. We’re reading historical documents, looking at old pictures, dreaming about the future, reading science fiction novels. We’re trying to get control of everything. Or maybe we’re trying to forget or pretend. We are not present to our hearts. We deny our own identity as God’s precious children. We’re afraid to be present to our hearts. We’re afraid perhaps to learn obedience through suffering. This isn’t about joining the Marines and suffering thru boot camp until you learn to obey orders. It’s about learning who we most deeply are and are called to be. Maybe Jesus learned how to hear God—how to really listen for God through his suffering, because in his suffering he was most deeply human. Most deeply vulnerable. Most deeply in need of connection to others and to God. Maybe in his suffering he knew his limits as a human person and could hear the beating of his heart as the divine rhythm within. And, I don‘t think this is just about his suffering on the cross. It’s about all his other suffering—the letting goes he did during his brief years of ministry. His grieving with the widows, his tears over Jerusalem, his frustration with his followers who never seemed to get it, his grief about his friend Lazarus, his exhaustion on those days of too much teaching and too many healings, his pain at seeing the poverty—the illness—the judgment—the rejection. And, his own experience of abandonment, and loss, of ridicule and betrayal. In all of this Jesus learned to listen for God. Just think of it—and think of your own life. Where have you heard God’s voice—where have you learned to listen for God? God within or God coming to you in another? Where in your own suffering have you learned how to tune your ears to the voice? The voice that matters more than any other. We are not called to seek suffering in some masochistic way—but to be open to God’s presence when it comes our way. To be willing to stand in solidarity with others as he does with us. Listen to your life. Listen to your limits. to your humanity. to your suffering. It is there often that your heart cracks open enough for you to recognize the divine law and love written there. To come to know your own preciousness to God. To know your own connections to others in whom God dwells. A few weeks ago in our parish a small group of women began a new ministry of prayer. Each week they collect prayer requests from a God Box in the Living Room. These are the requests and thanksgivings of women at the Living Room. They have dared to share their deepest dreams and hopes, their thanksgivings for blessings received with other women who have pledged to pray those prayers in faith. And what might happen here? Who can say the effects of such sharing and such prayer. But those who have dared to share their suffering and joy, and those who dare to open their hearts to one another will find their hearing attuned—their hearts opened to the truth of God within. It cannot be otherwise. It is the holiest of work. You and I are the Greeks who come here today with one desire, “We wish to see Jesus.” There is no place we cannot go, no person we cannot reach out to, no truth about ourselves we cannot face. Jesus in his weakness, his suffering, his humanity, is lifted up from earth and just then—at that moment when all is lost, he draws us all to God’s love, forgiveness, God’s gift of new life. ------- Feed is by M.T. Anderson, Candlewick Press, 2002.