Today's Sermon
Easter 3 Yr. B April 26, 2009
Alyssa was four years old when baby brother David arrived on the scene. One day, after David had been in the family for several months, Alyssa asked, “will David be here for Christmas?” “ Yes,” replied her mother. “Will he be here every Christmas?” Alyssa responded. “Why yes, he will be here for every Christmas from now on,” replied mom.
As her eyes opened to this new reality Alyssa responded with an emphatic, “RATS, ” and then marched up to her room, indignant.
New life is disruptive. Not only for older siblings but for anyone encountering something new in their midst.
Whether it ‘s actually a new life---a birth, an adoption a new co-worker or new neighbor the dynamic of a family, organization, or relationship is changed when someone new enters the mix. Our eyes are opened to a new reality, which is unfamiliar and cumbersome. As we get used to it, we may stumble, we may stammer we may even, in exasperation, exclaim: RATS and turn away.
Death disrupts as well. How many times did I, after my own father’s death, think, oh I need to call Dad and tell him about this or that or the other thing…only to be brought up short with the realization that I couldn’t call him. Ever. Family gatherings are not the same when grandparents, parents, siblings or children aren’t there----it changes the whole experience when someone is missing. It too is cumbersome and we may stumble and fall as we adjust [to this new reality].
The apostles, on this long long day of resurrection, experience both the disorienting events of death and then shockingly, new life. All in the same day. It began with mournful yet dutiful Mary Magdalene trudging to the tomb, to finish anointing the body of her beloved teacher. It continued with some disciples lamenting the loss of Jesus and all the events that lead up to the crucifixion as they journeyed toward Emmaus. And then, as we heard last week in John’s Gospel and today in Luke’s the eleven are huddled in the locked upper room, fearful, dismayed and disoriented by the events of the previous few days. The living are trying to regain their bearings following the death of a loved one…trying to figure out what to do next, how to carry on with someone missing.
But, in each instance, the grieving is interrupted, disrupted, and blown apart by the simple actions of the Risen Jesus—to Mary he simply says her name, to Thomas and the others he shows that he is flesh and bones, not a ghost, not a mirage.Through simple gestures of speech, touch and eating Jesus discloses the amazing truth: death has been replaced by life.
And suddenly, everything, once again, is changed. It isn’t as it was with Jesus dead, but it isn’t what it was when Jesus was alive either. It is hard to figure out. Just what is going on? Alleluia Christ is Risen. But what does that mean?
Now what? What do we do?
In a few hours this band of followers have gone from the disruption and disorientation of death to the disruption and disorientation of new life. They are, as we are told in two of our readings this morning, witnesses to these things.
Ask any police officer and they’ll tell you, put three witnesses in a room and you will get three different stories. Not because anyone is lying or being deliberately deceptive but because, when in a scary situation, when shocked by what we see, our perceptions get altered, our memories get confused, we aren’t sure of what it was we just saw. Or, we ARE sure of what we just saw, but we just can’t believe it.
I know that when I see something amazing---something tragic and horrible or miraculous and life giving, I have a tendency to stop dead in my tracks. It’s as if the automatic actions of living—breathing, talking, blinking, and walking--stop. Suddenly there is nothing we can do except gape, mouth open, eyes wide. It is as if we must open all our senses to comprehend what has just happened. The world as we have come to expect it, is changed, perhaps for just a moment, perhaps forever….but it is changed. ..and we need some time to adjust. Was what we just saw really what we just saw?
It takes some time for our eyes to be opened to this new reality.
Our readings early in this Easter season show us a whole group of people trying to come to grips with the disruptive events of life, death and then life again. A series of events unfolding at lightening speed leaving the disciples confused, frightened and seemingly in the dark about the new reality of Easter. But then, the risen Jesus opens their eyes and their hearts burn with a recognition which, while familiar, is also incomprehensible.
Jesus opened their eyes so they could finally begin to see, to comprehend to understand. It was a process of fits and starts as they tried to regain their footing in this new reality. Now it’s easy to scoff at the disciples—how could they NOT see? But truth be told, how often do we not see?
In the collect for today we ask that the eyes of our faith may be opened to behold the redeeming work of God in the world. Have our eyes been opened? If so, what do these opened eyes see?
Don’t we see the Risen Christ in the eyes of our co-workers, in the chatter of carpool kids in the backseat of the car, in the laugh shared at coffee hour, in the wave another driver gives us at the stop sign. You see, when our eyes are opened through our faith we find the Risen One everywhere, in the brokenness of another’s hurt, a hurt we try to soothe by listening, by being present. When our eyes are opened through our faith the risen Christ is found when we bring a bag of rice for the food pantry, when we linger with the elderly neighbor who is lonely. Our eyes are opened to see the Risen Christ when we support our youth and children. Our eyes are opened to the Risen Christ, our hands touch his wounds when we remember that the welfare of the world we live in, the caretaking of creation as bestowed to us by God , is dependent on us living dying and rising to life again every single day. It may be disruptive, it may be uncomfortable, it may be messy, but such is a life with a savior who has redeemed us to be an Easter people.
Amen.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Waiting, watching and remembering.
Maundy Thursday sermon, April 9, 2009
***The Gospel used at the Cathedral is Luke 22:14-30 as the foot washing is not practiced at St. Paul’s. ***
+Some 16 years ago as my father lay dying my extended family and I gathered round his hospital bed telling stories of the past-- funny stories about George, our dad, grandfather, husband and friend. We laughed and laughed at the memories until finally my mother noticed that his labored breathing had stopped. Dad was gone.
His final journey had been arduous and for the last three weeks of his life he was in the hospital, slowly descending into the grips of death. It was during those weeks and most especially those final days and hours that we had the opportunity to bear witness to Dad’s journey. During those final days we waited and watched with him. Many times there were no words, it was simply our presence that gave him the strength he needed to die. The memory of that waiting and watching with Dad will always be with me and sharing those memories as a family strengthens us, those memories make us who we are. Remembering that time is important because remembering the past helps us navigate the present. Walking with Dad and remembering that walk, is a big part of who I am today. Remembering forms us into who we are now.
Jesus took these two points—the walking with now and the remembering later and made them the focal point of that Thursday evening supper during the first Holy Week. “wait with me. Be with me as I move toward the inevitable. And then, when it is over, remember it all, remember me.” Jesus needed his friends to wait with him, to watch with him, to walk this final walk toward death with him. The week had such a promising start--the triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, but then over the next few days the triumph changed to despair as one by one the supporters fell away, denying him, deserting him, turning on him.
Tonight we meet Jesus halfway through this week, when all the questioning, the fear, the denial and the betrayal has been put in motion. ..the disciples are arguing, debating and gossiping…no one seems t o be paying attention. It’s a Seder, the ancient Jewish meal remembering Jewish people’s liberation from slavery, a story each of the disciples knew, a story integral to their Jewish identity. It’s possible this telling of the Passover story had become rote for them, they were just going through the ritual motions. But Jesus needed them to pay attention because on this night, as he had done so many times in the past, Jesus would take something utterly familiar, something very comfortable and turn it upside down and inside out.
Jesus knew that remembering was a key component of community building and he knew that the community of the burgeoning primitive church was going to need strength, a strength built on the telling of stories, built on the remembering of what came before.
Every one of us has stories, stories which have been handed down to us by parents and grandparents. Whatever the specifics we tell and re-tell these tales because they contribute to our identity, they make us who we are.
Jesus, on this night so long ago didn’t want his friends to forget his story. Not because he was some kind of egomaniac but because he knew the value of telling a story. Just as the story telling at my father’s bedside forged our family and friends into a stronger bond, Jesus wanted his friends to wait with him, to watch with him and then when he was gone, to tell the story, to remember and to be strengthened by the story enough to keep it going. He wants the same for us--for the work Jesus started is not yet finished and we as inheritors of the faith must carry it on. We must ingest these stories of Jesus. And to carry on the work we must claim the stories as our own, not only by telling them but by living them.
That’s why we have the Eucharist every week, because not only do we need to say it and hear it, we need to be it. So we take, we eat and we remember.
In a few minutes after sharing in the Eucharist one last time, we’ll strip the altar, while lamenting the betrayal, loss and despair of the next three days. We’ll strip ourselves bare to feel the pain and loss of Jesus’ death. We do this not because we need to be punished, not because we need to hurt. We do this so we can remember. So we’ll remember not just with words, not just with thoughts, but with actions. For when we strip our sacred space of all that is familiar, when we enter into the darkness of this long night, waiting watching and weeping with Christ, we remember. And through our remembering we are strengthened. Each time we take and eat we are remembering the story and with each remembrance we gain strength. The strength needed to continue to do the work God has given us to do. Amen.
***The Gospel used at the Cathedral is Luke 22:14-30 as the foot washing is not practiced at St. Paul’s. ***
+Some 16 years ago as my father lay dying my extended family and I gathered round his hospital bed telling stories of the past-- funny stories about George, our dad, grandfather, husband and friend. We laughed and laughed at the memories until finally my mother noticed that his labored breathing had stopped. Dad was gone.
His final journey had been arduous and for the last three weeks of his life he was in the hospital, slowly descending into the grips of death. It was during those weeks and most especially those final days and hours that we had the opportunity to bear witness to Dad’s journey. During those final days we waited and watched with him. Many times there were no words, it was simply our presence that gave him the strength he needed to die. The memory of that waiting and watching with Dad will always be with me and sharing those memories as a family strengthens us, those memories make us who we are. Remembering that time is important because remembering the past helps us navigate the present. Walking with Dad and remembering that walk, is a big part of who I am today. Remembering forms us into who we are now.
Jesus took these two points—the walking with now and the remembering later and made them the focal point of that Thursday evening supper during the first Holy Week. “wait with me. Be with me as I move toward the inevitable. And then, when it is over, remember it all, remember me.” Jesus needed his friends to wait with him, to watch with him, to walk this final walk toward death with him. The week had such a promising start--the triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, but then over the next few days the triumph changed to despair as one by one the supporters fell away, denying him, deserting him, turning on him.
Tonight we meet Jesus halfway through this week, when all the questioning, the fear, the denial and the betrayal has been put in motion. ..the disciples are arguing, debating and gossiping…no one seems t o be paying attention. It’s a Seder, the ancient Jewish meal remembering Jewish people’s liberation from slavery, a story each of the disciples knew, a story integral to their Jewish identity. It’s possible this telling of the Passover story had become rote for them, they were just going through the ritual motions. But Jesus needed them to pay attention because on this night, as he had done so many times in the past, Jesus would take something utterly familiar, something very comfortable and turn it upside down and inside out.
Jesus knew that remembering was a key component of community building and he knew that the community of the burgeoning primitive church was going to need strength, a strength built on the telling of stories, built on the remembering of what came before.
Every one of us has stories, stories which have been handed down to us by parents and grandparents. Whatever the specifics we tell and re-tell these tales because they contribute to our identity, they make us who we are.
Jesus, on this night so long ago didn’t want his friends to forget his story. Not because he was some kind of egomaniac but because he knew the value of telling a story. Just as the story telling at my father’s bedside forged our family and friends into a stronger bond, Jesus wanted his friends to wait with him, to watch with him and then when he was gone, to tell the story, to remember and to be strengthened by the story enough to keep it going. He wants the same for us--for the work Jesus started is not yet finished and we as inheritors of the faith must carry it on. We must ingest these stories of Jesus. And to carry on the work we must claim the stories as our own, not only by telling them but by living them.
That’s why we have the Eucharist every week, because not only do we need to say it and hear it, we need to be it. So we take, we eat and we remember.
In a few minutes after sharing in the Eucharist one last time, we’ll strip the altar, while lamenting the betrayal, loss and despair of the next three days. We’ll strip ourselves bare to feel the pain and loss of Jesus’ death. We do this not because we need to be punished, not because we need to hurt. We do this so we can remember. So we’ll remember not just with words, not just with thoughts, but with actions. For when we strip our sacred space of all that is familiar, when we enter into the darkness of this long night, waiting watching and weeping with Christ, we remember. And through our remembering we are strengthened. Each time we take and eat we are remembering the story and with each remembrance we gain strength. The strength needed to continue to do the work God has given us to do. Amen.
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