That Which We Have Heard & Known

Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

Page 114 of 130

Ecclesiastical Buggy-Whips – From the Daily Office – April 20, 2012

Jesus said ….

I have said these things to you to keep you from stumbling. They will put you out of the synagogues. Indeed, an hour is coming when those who kill you will think that by doing so they are offering worship to God. And they will do this because they have not known the Father or me. But I have said these things to you so that when their hour comes you may remember that I told you about them.

(From the Daily Office Readings, April 20, 2012 – John 16:1-4a)

Buggy with WhipThe early members of the church were prepared, I think, to be separated from the synagogue, to be cast out from Judaism, and to take the major step of becoming adherents of a new and distinct religion. The church members of the first few centuries were, I think, prepared to be persecuted, killed, martyred. Through their witness and the strength of their faith, the church overcame that separation and that persecution to become the most powerful institution in Western Europe; it was prepared to do that. That was, of course, a mixed blessing and there is a lot of historical debate about and some warranted condemnation of the church’s record as the established religion of empires and kingdoms. However, for 2,000 or so years the church, faced with and prepared for either persecution or power, flourished. ~ What the church was not and still is not prepared for is to be relegated to the sidelines, to be treated with indifference, to be seen as irrelevant to the lives of the people it is charged to reach (I’m thinking “Great Commission” here – Matthew 28:16–20). In other words, the church is not prepared for the contemporary, so-called post-modern world which it, in many ways, has helped to create. A recent book, The Millenials (B&H Books, 2011), claims that 70% of those born between 1980 and 2000 consider the church irrelevant to their lives. Meanwhile, Diana Butler Bass and others are writing about the increase in the numbers of those who call themselves “spiritual but not religious.” It’s not the church’s message that is irrelevant; it’s the way the church has been packaging and presenting that message. ~ So what do I mean by that? In terms of this little squib from John’s Gospel, what I am saying is that the church has forgotten what Jesus told us. We remember what he said about bread and wine; we remembered in those early centuries what he said about persecution; but we have forgotten what he said about irrelevance. And now you’re asking, “What did he say about that?” I’m thinking this morning of the time he sent the disciples out in pairs saying to them, “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money – not even an extra tunic.” (Luke 9:3) They were to enter each situation without preconception, without preparation based on prior notions of what was needed, what might be “relevant”. They were to face each new situation as it presented itself on its own terms . . . and deal with it. The church has forgotten that. Instead, we’ve loaded ourselves up with all sorts of baggage, with theologies, with liturgies, with buildings, with structures, with music, with . . . the list goes on and on and on . . . ~ When I was getting my MBA one of the case studies concerned a buggy-whip manufacturer in the early 20th Century. Facing the possible competition from the newfangled motor-car manufacturers, the buggy-whip maker spent much time and effort improving his product and his manufacturing efficiency … and promptly went out of business when the automobile made horse-drawn conveyances, and thus buggy-whips, irrelevant. If the buggy-whip manufacturer had rethought things, he might have concluded that he was not in the buggy-whip business but rather in the business of making devices for transportation. Doing so, he might have changed his product line and his marketing strategies, and been able to survive the challenge of the new economy and make the transition into a new era. ~ The newspaper industry has faced a similar situation in the past two decades. The daily newspapers have had to ask themselves whether they are in the “print media” business or the “news” business. Those who answered that question appropriately have moved into the internet and other electronic media; those who didn’t, are out of business. ~ What “business” is the church in? Are we in the “religion” business? Yes, but what is the broader context of that business? Is it not the wider world of the “spirituality” business? I think those who say they are “spiritual but not religious” are saying something akin to the transportation consumers of the early 20th Century who basically said “We are moving, but not in horse-drawn buggies.” ~ It’s time for the church to remember what business we’re in and what Jesus told us: “Take nothing into your new situation, no buildings, no music, no systematic theologies, no liturgies, no ‘we’ve always done it this way before’.”

The Three-Act Drama of Redemption: Act Three – Easter Is a Joke! (Easter 2012)

Revised Common Lectionary for Easter Sunday, Principal Service, Year B: Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 118:1-2,14-24; Acts 10:34-43; Mark 16:1-8

In the run up to Easter which is the season of Lent several of us in this parish took some time out of our everyday lives to ponder the contemporary meaning of the ancient Hebrew writers we call “the Prophets.” We were guided in that study by scholar and seminary professor Walter Brueggemann, who encouraged us to think of the Prophets as poets rather than as seers or prognosticators. Brueggemann also asked us to think of contemporary poets whom we might consider prophets. I shared with the group one of my favorites, Kentucky farmer and poet Wendell Berry. I read to the group this poem entitled Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front:

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I love that poem for its critique of modern society, but mostly I love it for that last line which summarizes the whole poem: “Practice resurrection.”

Resurrection IconIf you’ve been with us here for the services of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday, or have been following the sermons on line, you know that we have come to Act Three of the three-act drama of redemption. In the first act, we saw the protagonist, Jesus of Nazureth, trying one last time make his disciples understand his mission and his message. Through the metaphor of bread and wine, through the enacted parable of foot-washing, through an agonized night of prayer in a garden, he tried to teach them that his was a mission of love and life, but they just didn’t seem to get it. As the curtain fell on Act One, he was being taken away to be questioned by Jewish and Roman authorities and the disciples, frightened and confused, were scattering, unsure of what was going to happen next.

That question was answered in Act Two as the Roman governor gave in to the stirred-up crowd and turned Jesus over to his soldiers who scourged him, beat him, mocked him, and finally crucified and killed him. The drama of redemption was shaping up to be a tragedy and, if that death on Calvary’s cross had been the end of it, it surely would have been. The hero dead the whole story would have tragic, and pointless, and of not much worth or interest to anyone. But of course, as we now learn in Act Three, it was not the end and, instead of a tragedy, the drama of redemption has turned out to be a comedy!

“A comedy?” you ask. “Of course,” I say, “because Easter is a joke!”

OK … I guess, perhaps, I should explain that. Well, what is a “joke”? One dictionary definition of joke is that it is an “activity characterized by good humor.” (WordNet, Princeton University, 1997.) Can you think of a better way to characterize the Resurrection of Jesus than as an “activity characterized by good humor”? The Resurrection was God’s activity of the highest and best humor! G.K. Chesterton once wrote:

Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly. Never forget that the devil fell by force of gravity … A good joke is the closest thing to divine revelation … They who have the faith have the fun.

So, Easter is joke, a very good joke! Easter reveals God as no other celebration has ever done. Only God can draw the greatest good out of the greatest evil. Of evil, Saint Thomas More once wrote, “The devil … that proud spirit … cannot endure to be mocked.” The people of the Middle Ages understood this and celebrate Easter by getting the last laugh on evil. In the 13th Century some German communities would throw a laughter party on Easter Sunday. Its purpose was simple: to celebrate God’s triumph over the devil. People would come back to church on Easter Sunday afternoon for Vespers and Benediction services. As a reward to the faithful for enduring many serious Lenten homilies, the priest would insert funny stories, poems, and even off-color jokes into his sermon and would draw moral conclusions from them.

An ancient Russian Orthodox tradition was to sit around the Easter dinner table telling jokes. Like those 13th-Century Germans, the Russians even told them in church. Why? Because Easter makes people joyous. After all, when we tell funny stories and laugh, we are imitating the cosmic joke that God pulled on Satan in the Resurrection. Satan thought he had won, but then God raised up Jesus from the dead and had the last word. As St. John Chrysostom preached in his famous Paschal Homily:

Hell grasped a corpse, and met God.
Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven.
Hell took what it saw,
and was overcome by what it could not see.

Hell was in turmoil having been mocked.

And the world laughs at Satan’s chagrin. Laughing at the Devil even has a name in theological tradition; it is called the risus paschalis, “Easter laughter”.

So in Act Three the drama of redemption turns out to be a comedy; God in Christ pulls a cosmic joke on the forces of evil and we rejoice in the triumph over Death that Easter embodies. Death had been a disturbing thing. For much of human history people have had an attitude toward it somewhat like Woody Allen’s: “It’s not that I’m afraid to die,” he once said. “I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Jesus’ Resurrection turned the tables on Death. It was a cosmic joke! Where death had once been something to shudder at, the third act of the drama shows, that there is nothing to fear. As one Sunday School student put: “When you die, God takes care of you like your parents did when you were alive … only God doesn’t yell at you all the time.”

The German Reformed theologian Jurgen Moltmann, who wrote the book The Theology of Joy, writes, “Easter laughter is rooted in the wholly unexpected and totally surprising ‘reversal of all things.’ God had brought this reversal about by raising Christ…. The expectation was for cosmic death, but what comes is eternal life.”

We North Americans, especially us folks here in the upper midwest, are too darned serious. Praying and laughing seem to be far apart in our culture, but at Easter they come together, as they do throughout Holy Scripture. In Psalm 126, the Hebrews praised God with mirth: “Then our mouth was filled with laughter and our tongue with shouts of joy” (Ps. 126:2). Jesus promised laughter to those who are favored by God: “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” (Luke 6:21) It seems the ancients were much more aware of the relationship between prayer and laughter than are we. Some scholars believe our English word joke ultimately comes (through Latin) from the ancient Umbrian word iuka, which means “prayers”!

So, Easter is a joke, a great big cosmic joke, in which God turns the tables on Satan, turns the tables on evil, turns the tables on death! Act Three reveals that the drama of redemption is actually a comedy, and we are invited … no – more that that … we are encouraged and empowered to join in the laughter, even in what seem to be the darkest of times.

In 1875, a German passenger liner, the SS Deutschland sunk off the coast of England. Among those killed were five Franciscan nuns. In their honor, the English Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins penned a long poem at the end of which he wrote these wonderful lines:

Remember us in the roads,
the heaven-haven of the Reward
Our King back … !
Let him easter in us.

Don’t you love that use of easter as a verb? “Let him easter in us.” God eastered Christ after three days. Christ easters in us. It’s like Wendell Berry’s admonition to “practice resurrection”! Easter isn’t just a day or a season, it’s a verb! An activity! … An “activity characterized by good humor.” Resurrection isn’t just something that happened about 2,000 years ago, or something that will happen sometime in some distant, unknown future; it’s an on-going reality, happening now; a joyful, laughter-producing, cosmic turning of the tables on death in which we are all invited, encouraged, and empowered to participate!

The third act of the drama of redemption shows us that Hopkins was right; easter is a verb! To easter is a decision, a decision God made in not giving into the Crucifixion, a decision we can each make every day not giving into the forces of death and despair. To easter is to do all the things Wendell Berry set out in his Mad Farmer Manifesto: loving the Lord, loving the world, working for nothing, planting sequoias, lying down in the shade, willfully losing our minds, and looking forward to the end of the world with laughter!

To easter is to engage in the spiritual process of not giving in … not giving in to negation and death … not giving in to meaninglessness and despair … not giving in to isolation and fear … not giving in to powerlessness and incapacitation. Easter is an act of brave human existence. Not just a day-long holiday of bunnies, bonnets, and bluebirds, Easter is a daily reality, a decision Christ’s Resurrection empowers each of us to make when faced with the inevitable difficulties of life, a decision to “practice resurrection” and refuse to surrender our essential humanity even in the face of death itself.

So the drama of redemption, my friends, is a comedy; Easter is a joke, a great big cosmic joke, the ultimate act of God’s good humor, the closest thing we have to divine revelation. And we who have the faith have the fun. Practice resurrection! Let him Easter in you! Amen!

The Three-Act Drama of Redemption: Act Three – The Paschal Homily (Easter 2012)

Revised Common Lectionary for the Great Vigil of Easter, Year B: Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21; Proverbs 8:1-8, 19-21;9:4b-6; Zephaniah 3:12-20; Psalm 114; Romans 6:3-11; Mark 16:1-8

Early Byzantine mosaic portrait of St John Chrysostom from the Cathedral of Hagia Sophia in ConstantinopleSome time in the late Fourth Century, St. John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople and an important Early Church Father known for his eloquence in preaching and public speaking (hence, the surname Chrysostom which means “golden-mouthed”), preached this sermon on Easter.

Since that time, throughout the Christian East, it has been a tradition to read this at the Great Vigil of Easter. It is known simply as “the Paschal Homily” and any Orthodox Christian who hears that title knows exactly what is meant.

I offer it to you this evening. (For those who have been following our “three-act drama of redemption” theme, the third-act sermon will be offered at tomorrow’s Festal Eucharist.)

Are there any who are devout lovers of God?
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!

Are there any who are grateful servants?
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary from fasting?
Let them now receive their due!

If any have toiled from the first hour,
let them receive their reward.

If any have come after the third hour,
let them with gratitude join in the feast!

Those who arrived after the sixth hour,
let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.

Those who have tarried until the ninth hour,
let them not hesitate; but let them come too.

And those who arrived only at the eleventh hour,
let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.

For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first.

The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour,
even as to those who toiled from the beginning.

To one and all the Lord gives generously.

The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention.

Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!?
First and last alike, receive your reward.
Rich and poor, rejoice together!

Conscientious and lazy, celebrate the day!

You who have kept the fast, and you who have not,
rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread!

Feast royally, for the calf is fatted.
Let no one go away hungry.

Partake, all, of the banquet of faith.
Enjoy the bounty of the Lord’s goodness!

Let no one grieve being poor,
for the universal reign has been revealed.

Let no one lament persistent failings,
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.

Let no one fear death,
for the death of our Saviour has set us free.

The Lord has destroyed death by enduring it.

The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.
The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh.

Isaiah foretold this when he said,
“You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below.”

?
Hell was in turmoil having been eclipsed.
Hell was in turmoil having been mocked.
Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed.
Hell was in turmoil having been abolished.
Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.

Hell grasped a corpse, and met God.
Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven.
Hell took what it saw,
and was overcome by what it could not see.

O death, where is your sting?
O hell, where is your victory?

Christ is risen, and you are cast down!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life is set free!
Christ is risen,
and the tomb is emptied of its dead.

For Christ, having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Christ be glory and power forever and ever. Amen!

The Three-Act Drama of Redemption: Intermission – Meditation for Holy Saturday, 2012

Revised Common Lectionary for Holy Saturday, Year B: Lamentations 3:1-9, 19-24; Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16; 1 Peter 4:1-8; John 19:38-42

This meditation comes from a Holy Saturday homily written in Greek dating back to the fourth century and found in the record of an ancient liturgy; however, the author of this text describing the beginning of the Harrowing of Hell, Christ’s encounter with Adam and Eve, is unknown. During the intermission of the three-act drama of redemption, we read these program notes, beginning with an ancient anthem of the day.

Our shepherd, the source of the water of life, has died.
The sun was darkened when he passed away.
But now man’s captor is made captive.

This is the day when our Savior broke through the gates of death.
He has destroyed the barricades of hell,
overthrown the sovereignty of the devil.
This is the day when our Savior broke through the gates of death.

Something strange is happening – there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.

He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: “My Lord be with you all”. Christ answered him: “And with your spirit”. He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light”.

I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated. For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.

See on my face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I received in order to refashion your warped nature in my image. On my back see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree.

I slept on the cross and a sword pierced my side for you who slept in paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in hell. The sword that pierced me has sheathed the sword that was turned against you.

Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly paradise. I will not restore you to that paradise, but I will enthrone you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life, but see, I who am life itself am now one with you. I appointed cherubim to guard you as slaves are guarded, but now I make them worship you as God. The throne formed by cherubim awaits you, its bearers swift and eager. The bridal chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity.

Let us pray:

All-powerful and ever-living God, your only Son went down among the dead and rose again in glory. In your goodness raise up your faithful people, buried with him in baptism, to be one with him in the eternal life of your kingdom, where he lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen.

The Three-Act Drama of Redemption: Act Two – Sermon for Good Friday 2012

Revised Common Lectionary for Good Friday, Year B: Isaiah 52:13-53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9; John 18:1-19:42

In the first act of the drama of redemption, Love tried to teach his lesson through bread and wine, through water and basin, through garden prayer, and through willing surrender to corrupt authority. The Body and Blood symbolically broken, the Body washing other bodies, the Blood sweated out in agonized prayer, these did not suffice and so, betrayed and exhausted, he surrendered. Whether or not he knew what would ultimately happen is irrelevant. He could do nothing else – if he were to remain faithful to his God, faithful to his values, faithful to his principles, faithful to his mission, he could do nothing else. And so now, in the second act, the incarnate Creator is prisoner to Destruction, now Life is condemned to death by Death.

Rembrandt, Portrait of ChristIn the beginning he had been tempted by riches, by power, by idolization; all these had been offered in the desert. Now how great the temptation must have been to simply give up! Poet Denise Levertov ponders this allure in her poem Salvator Mundi: Via Crucis

Maybe He looked indeed
much as Rembrandt envisioned Him
in those small heads that seem in fact
portraits of more than a model.
A dark, still young, very intelligent face,
A soul-mirror gaze of deep understanding, unjudging.
That face, in extremis, would have clenched its teeth
In a grimace not shown in even the great crucifixions.
The burden of humanness (I begin to see) exacted from Him
That He taste also the humiliation of dread,
cold sweat of wanting to let the whole thing go,
like any mortal hero out of his depth,
like anyone who has taken herself back.
The painters, even the greatest, don’t show how,
in the midnight Garden,
or staggering uphill under the weight of the Cross,
He went through with even the human longing
to simply cease, to not be.
Not torture of body,
not the hideous betrayals humans commit
nor the faithless weakness of friends, and surely
not the anticipation of death (not then, in agony’s grip)
was Incarnation’s heaviest weight,
but this sickened desire to renege,
to step back from what He, Who was God,
had promised Himself, and had entered
time and flesh to enact.
Sublime acceptance, to be absolute, had to have welled
up from those depths where purpose
drifted for mortal moments.
(In The Stream & the Sapphire: Selected poems on religious themes [New Directions Books: 1997])

In this second act of the drama of redemption, it is faith and will which prevail, the faith and will of Jesus who did not step back, who did not give in to the human longing to simply cease.

Rembrandt, Raising the CrossIn this second act of the drama all that has gone before is recapitulated; all that we saw in yesterday’s first act, the supper in the upper room, the act of servanthood taught there, the agonized prayer in the garden, the willing surrender to unjust authority, and more. Not just yesterday’s first act, but all that has gone before from our first act of defiance in the first garden. Poet Ross Miller reminds us of that bond in his brief verse entitled Tau

That dreadful beam
that Jesu bore
knot made from pine
but ancient tree
that bore a bitter fruit

That pole on which it hung
he hung
knot made from pine
undying tree of life
that bears forever fruit

Take and eat – the Serpent cried
You shall not die
You shall be
like God
We bit
The Servant took those twisted words
held them on the knotted wood
Take and eat – the Servant cries
You shall not die
You shall be
like me
(Found at Stations of the Cross)

We shall be like him! It is here on the cross in this second act that the promise of the Incarnation, the guarantee of the Nativity is made good. Then we sang

Great little One! whose all-embracing birth
Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to Earth.
(In The Holy Nativity of Our Lord God: A Hymn Sung as by Shepherds, Richard Crashaw [1613-49])

Here on the cross, indeed, God “gathers up all things in Christ, things in heaven and things on earth.” (Eph. 1:10) And here on the cross, in an act of faithfulness and will, he died. Here on the cross, in this final fact of human existence, truly “God became man so that man might become a god.” (St. Athanasius, De Incarnatione)

But his death, we know, cannot be the end of the story. This is only the second act of a three-act drama. So his body must be taken down; it must be dealt with in the appropriate way.

Rembrandt, Descent from Cross

Composer Jimmy Owens paints the picture in his cantata No Other Lamb:

They took Him down,
His poor dead body,
and prepared Him for His burial.

They took Him down,
His poor pale body
drained of life, ashen, and stained
with its own life-blood.

His healing hands, now pierced and still;
Serving hands, that broke five loaves
to feed five thousand;
Holy hands, often folded in fervent prayer;
Poor gentle hands, now pierced and still.

His poor torn feet, now bloodied and cold;
Feet that walked weary miles
to bring good news to broken hearts
Feet once washed in penitent’s tears;
Poor torn feet, now bloodied and cold.

His kingly head, made for a crown,
now crowned – with thorns.
His poor kingly head, crowned with thorns.

His gentle breast, now pierced by
spear-thrust, quiet and still;
His poor loving breast.

His piercing eyes, now dark and blind;
Eyes of compassion, warming the soul;
Fiery eyes, burning at sin;
Tender eyes, beckoning sinners;
His piercing eyes, now dark and blind.

His matchless voice, fountain of the Father’s
thoughts, stopped –
and stilled – to speak no more.
Silence now, where once had flowed
Wisdom and comfort, Spirit and life;
His matchless voice; stilled, to speak no more.

They took Him down,
His poor dead body,
and prepared Him for his burial.
(They Took Him Down in No Other Lamb [Lillenas Publishing Co.])

And so the second act comes to a close, the body is laid in a tomb and as the rock is rolled to seal it, the now-torn curtain descends. We are left in the darkness of our hearts to contemplate our place in this drama. With poet Luci Shaw we realize that we just may be Judas or Peter….

because we are all
betrayers, taking
silver and eating
body and blood and asking
(guilty) is it I and hearing
him say yes
it would be simple for us all
to rush out
and hang ourselves
but if we find grace
to cry and wait
after the voice of morning
has crowed in our ears
clearly enough
to break our hearts
he will be there
to ask each again
do you love me?
(Judas, Peter in A Widening Light: Poems of the Incarnation [Regent College Publishing, 1997])

The Three-Act Drama of Redemption: Act One – Sermon for Maundy Thursday 2012

Revised Common Lectionary for Maundy Thursday, Year B: Exodus 12:1-14; Psalm 116:1,10-17; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Redemption is a drama in three acts – three acts and a brief intermission – tonight we take part in Act One.

Act One, Scene One: The curtain rises. We see a group of people gathered in an upper room somewhere in Jerusalem.

A meal is in progress… Is it a seder, the ritual meal of remembrance of the Passover? We don’t really know; the playwrights have not made this clear; the theater critics, the scholars debate this issue. Three of the story-tellers suggest that it is but the fourth, John, tells the tale very differently. (The synoptic gospels tell the story in a similar way and, if truth be told, in the same way – Luke and Matthew based their stories on Mark’s, so to be honest there aren’t three stories, there’s only one that would make us think that this supper is a seder, but John doesn’t. In fact, John doesn’t even care about that – he spends no time at all describing the meal, for him the important thing is what happened afterward, and that comes in a later scene. So as we begin this three-day, three-act drama of redemption, since we have heard Luke’s voice narrating the story, let’s just assume that what we see in this first scene of the first act is, indeed, a seder.)

Those present are prepared to do all that is laid out in the instructions in the book of Exodus; they have worn their sandals; they carry their staffs; they expect to eat of roasted lamb and unleavened bread and bitter herbs. They anticipate spending the night in remembrance of that which happened generations before in Egypt. If we can imagine that they celebrate as modern Jews celebrate, they expect the youngest among them to ask the questions, beginning with “Why is this night different from all other nights?” They know that the head of the household, their rabbi Jesus, will answer those questions in the prescribed way and tell the story of the Passover.

And when the youngest asks “Why do we eat the broken matzah?” they expect Jesus to answer “This is the bread of our affliction; the unleavened bread of poverty, baked and eaten in haste,” but instead he takes the bread, brakes it and says, “This bread is my body, given for you.”

Can’t you just see them in this scene, reclining in that upper room, those serving the meal coming and going, a breeze blowing through the open windows, following along in their prayer books, the Haggadah … They look up startled, glancing at one another, murmuring to each other, “What is he talking about? That’s not here! That’s not the right answer. Where is he? What page is he on?” But the moment passes, the meal moves on, until at the end he takes up the fourth and final cup of wine, the kiddush cup, which recalls God’s promise, “I will acquire you as a nation; you will be my people and I will be your God.” They expect Jesus to say, “Blessed are you, O Lord our God, sovereign of the universe, creator of the fruit of the vine,” but instead they hear, “This cup is my blood!” “What?! What is he saying???”

It is for Jesus and his disciples one of those fleeting opportunities when, because of the pupils’ confusion or frustration or grasping for understanding, the teacher can pass on to the students new information, new values, new moral understanding, a new behavior, a new skill, a new way of seeing and coping with reality; it is what we have come to call “the teachable moment” and so he teaches, yet again, “Remember! Remember,” he says, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

The curtain falls as Jesus continues to teach; the disciples look mystified.

Act One, Scene Two: The curtain rises again. We see the same group of people gathered in the same upper room somewhere in Jerusalem.

Jesus Washing the Feet of His Disciples by Michal SplhoThe meal is over, the dishes have been cleared. The disciples are arguing among themselves about who is the greater among them. Jesus looks frustrated and troubled; the teachable moment has passed and they clearly have not understood! They just haven’t gotten it.

“Look,” he says, “the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves. Here, let me show you what I mean.” Getting up from the table, he takes off his robe, ties a towel around himself, pours water into a basin, and begins to wash and dry the others’ feet. Peter protests, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answers, “Peter, if I don’t wash you, you can’t be part of what I’m doing.” So Peter relents, “Well then, not only my feet! Wash my hands and my head, too!”

Peter speaks for us. We don’t get this foot-washing thing, do we? Washing our hands makes more sense to us, as it does to Anglican nun and poet Lucy Nanson who wrote:

Wash my hands on Maundy Thursday
not my feet
My hands peel potatoes, wipe messes from the floor
change dirty nappies, clean the grease from pots and pans
have pointed in anger and pushed away in tears
in years past they’ve smacked a child and raised a fist
fumbled with nervousness, shaken with fear
I’ve wrung them when waiting for news to come
crushed a letter I’d rather forget
covered my mouth when I’ve been caught out
touched forbidden things, childhood memories do not grow dim
These hands have dug gardens, planted seeds
picked fruit and berries, weeded out and pruned trees
found bleeding from the rose’s thorns
dirt and blood mix together
when washed before a cup of tea
Love expressed by them
asks for your respect
in the hand-shake of warm greeting,
the gentle rubbing of a child’s bump
the caressing of a lover, the softness of a baby’s cheek
sounds of music played by them in tunes upon a flute
they’ve held a frightened teenager,
touched a father in his death
where cold skin tells the end of life has come
but not the end of love,
comforted a mother losing agility and health.
With my hands outstretched before you
I stand humbled and in awe
your gentle washing in water, the softness of the towel
symbolizing a cleansing
the servant-hood of Christ.
Wash my hands on Maundy Thursday
and not my feet.

Yes, Peter speaks for us; we would rather our hands be washed. But Jesus insists, he must wash his disciples feet for only in this way does one truly honor and serve another in love, only in this way does one recall whose servant one is. He says to them, “If I, your master and teacher, have washed your feet, you must now wash each other’s feet.” Only in this way can his disciples remember his teaching that what is done for us is also to be done for others.

They don’t get the opportunity, however, for the second scene ends as Jesus becomes visibly agitated and declares, “One of you is going to betray me.”

As the curtain goes down, the disciples are looking puzzled and Judas Iscariot is leaving.

Act One, Scene Three: The curtain rises again. We see a garden and an olive grove just outside of Jerusalem. Jesus is there, accompanied by Peter, James, and John.

Praying at Gethsemane by He Qi “Stay here,” he tells them, “Stay awake while I go over there to pray.” As they settle themselves, he moves away from them, and collapses in a heap, sobbing: “O God … Father, let this pass!”

Three times he returns to find them asleep; three times they rise looking sheepish and embarrassed; twice he tells them again to try to stay awake as he goes away still pleading with God for a way out. “Enough,” he says the third time, “Enough! We’re leaving.”

When they look back on that night, how must they feel? When we look back, how should we feel?

Poet Mary Oliver offers a glimpse in her poem Gethsemane:

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did,
maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree,
and didn’t move, maybe the lake far away,
where once he walked as on a blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be part of the story.

Yes, this too, our utterly human inability to fully keep company with our Lord, this too must be part of the story when it is told, as we see it unfold in the church’s memory tonight, but for now the stage fills, the garden becomes crowded … Judas returns accompanied by temple guards, and Roman soldiers, and servants of the priests … and are those some of the disciples showing up? The orchard of olives suddenly is filled with angry activity, with scuffling, with fighting, with confusion. Peter calls out, “Lord, should we fight back?” and, without waiting for an answer, draws his sword and cuts off a servant’s ear.

“Stop!” cries Jesus. He reaches out and tenderly touches the servant’s head, healing his wound. He seems sadly confused, “Why have you come to arrest me with swords drawn?” he asks, “I’ve been teaching in the temple all week! You could have taken me any time.” It all seems too much for him. Certainly, it’s too much for us! Again, a poet, Ted Loder, speaks for us:

Sometimes, Lord,
it just seems to be too much:
too much violence, too much fear;
too much of demands and problems;
too much of broken dreams and broken lives;
too much of wars and slums and dying:
too much of greed and squishy fatness
and the sounds of people
devouring each other
and the earth;
too much of stale routines and quarrels,
unpaid bills and dead ends;
too much of words lobbed in to explode
leaving shredded hearts and lacerated souls;
too much of turned-away backs and yellow silence,
red rage and the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth.

Sometimes the very air seems scorched
by threats and rejection and decay
until there is nothing
but to inhale pain
and exhale confusion.

Too much of darkness, Lord,
too much of cruelty
and selfishness
and indifference.

Too much, Lord
too much,
too bloody,
bruising,
brain-washing much.

Or is it too little,
too little of compassion,
too little of courage,
of daring,
of persistence,
[too little] of sacrifice?

Jesus and his captors exit; the disciples, confused and frightened, sneak out behind them. The curtain falls. We are left in darkness….

Let us pray:

Heavenly Father, as we enter again into the mystery of these three most holy days, as we participate once again in this three-act drama of redemption, we ask you to illumine our minds and hearts with the hope and promise of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection; satisfy our hunger and thirst not for bread and drink alone, but for love, and truth, and justice, and peace; as we share your Son’s Body and Blood, renew us and energize us to be a true community of light amid the darkness of sin and injustice in our world; as Jesus invites us to share at his Table, let us in turn invite our brothers and sisters to the table where all can share the resources of your abundance, where justice and peace reign, and where love transforms souls and societies; as the drama of redemption continues, may life conquer death, may light shine in the darkness, and may courage and compassion grow from sacrifice; in Christ’s holy Name we pray. Amen.

Redemption – A Drama in Three Acts

Redemption is a drama in three acts – three acts and a brief intermission.

Act One, Scene One – Location: an upper room somewhere in Jerusalem.

In the first act, Jesus shares a special meal with his friends. He knows, although they seem not to, that this will be their last formal meal together. As supper he tries to explain to them what he believes is going to happen and how he hopes they’ll remember him. He uses bread and wine to make his point, but they don’t seem to understand. In fact, as the scene ends, they are arguing about their relative ranks! Who among them will be the greatest? The curtain falls on a frustrated rabbi.

Act One, Scene One – Location: an upper room somewhere in Jerusalem.

Dinner is over, so Jesus tries something else. Taking on the role of a servant, he kneels down and washes their feet, but they still don’t get it. Later they would begin to understand; later they would re-enact Jesus’ actions and ponder them again and again, trying to more fully understand him. We are still re-enacting; we are still pondering; we are still groping toward understanding. Attend a church service on Maundy Thursday evening as Christians do it again, as we seek to grasp Jesus’ meaning in the bread and wine, in the servant’s towel, in the basin of water and cleaning of feet.

Act One, Scene Three – Location: a garden at Gethsemane.

Depressed and agonizing, feeling he has failed, knowing his actions of the past three years are leading inexorably to a final “showdown” with the political authorities, Jesus spends time in prayer. He asks his closest friends to stay awake with him, but they cannot. Falling asleep as he prays, they abandon him emotionally just as they will later abandon him physically. Come spend time with Jesus in prayer. Can you do what his friends could not? Can you spend an hour awake with Jesus? Perhaps a church near you has a Chapel of Repose where you can spend some time with our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament. If not, just set aside time for an hour of prayer on Thursday night.

Act Two – Location: a hill called Calvary.

Jesus, struggling under the weight of a cross, staggers up the hill from the city to the summit. Once there, he is nailed to the cross he has dragged along the way. The crowd jeers, the soldiers mock, his friends (so few of them now) weep. Speaking from the cross as he dies, “Forgive them…. It is finished.” It certainly seems to be the end. What more could possibly come after the death of the drama’s protagonist? The Stations of the Cross, the Way of Tears, is a good meditation for Good Friday. Perhaps a nearby church will be offering the Liturgy of the Presanctified (Communion from the Reserved Sarament).

Intermission – Location: a sealed tomb.

The characters have all left the stage. It is bare and as silent as a grave. Is this intermission or has the drama concluded. The principal’s death certainly seems to have ended things! The silence of Holy Saturday is broken only by the Proanaphora, brief lessons and prayers. You can find a form of the Holy Saturday liturgy in The Book of Common Prayer; it is a fine morning interlude of quiet contemplation. What does all that has come before mean? How can there possibly be anything more after this?

Act Three – Location: a garden, the tombstone rolled away.

What seemed to be a tragedy at the end of the second act turns out to be a comedy. The tomb is empty! There are angels where there should be mourners! There are only folded linens where there should be a body! Confusion mixes with joy, disbelief encounters faith, death is overcome by life. The joke is on the powers of evil. But what does it all mean? Many who have missed the first two acts of this drama will be there to see the end of the story; can one truly appreciate the momentous conclusion without having lived through it all? Can they really get the punchline? Try to take part in the full story on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday, but even if you can’t, join in celebration of the Resurrection at Easter services in a nearby church.

Redemption is a drama in three acts. Join in the experience as fully as you can!

Holy Week Hiatus

I’m taking a week away from doing the meditations on the Daily Office Lectionary. During Holy Week there are simply too many other things to get done. I’ll be back with more meditations on bits of the Daily Office readings after Easter.

Palm Sunday in Poetry – Sermon for April 1, 2012

Revised Common Lectionary for Palm Sunday, Year B: John 12:12-16; Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; and Mark 14:1-15:47

We have just read the simple, yet dramatic story of our Lord’s Passion as related in Mark’s Gospel. But we began our worship this morning with John’s story of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem. In the span of a few minutes we covered an entire week at the end of Jesus’ earthly life. Logic and reason cannot really make sense of this, and no ten-minute homiletic exegesis of these texts can help us comprehend the enormity of those events.

Perhaps, instead, some poetry.

Hark! how the children shrill and high
Hosanna cry,
Their joys provoke the distant sky,
Where thrones and seraphims reply,
And their own angels shine and sing
In a bright ring:
Such young, sweet mirth
Makes heaven and earth
Join in a joyful symphony.

And thus Holy Week begins on Palm Sunday. In this little poem entitled Palm Sunday by Henry Vaughan (1622-1695), the Welsh metaphysical poet, we get a glimpse of what was at the beginning, the joy that was supposed to be, the glory that was lost.

G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936), who has been called “the apostle of common sense” but was also known for his humor, gives us a glimpse into the mind of one of the lesser-considered characters in the drama of Jesus’ entering Jerusalem:

When fishes flew and forests walked,
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood,
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry,
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
Of all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient, crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

Chesterton’s little poem is entitled The Donkey.

Marie J. Post (1919-1990), a 20th Century poet and hymn writer whose poems often appeared in The Banner, the denominational magazine of the Christian Reformed Church, in her poem, also entitled simply Palm Sunday, suggests parallels between that Palm Sunday ride and the Way of Tears Jesus would walk later in the week:

Astride the colt and claimed as King
that Sunday morning in the spring,
he passed a thornbush flowering red
that one would plait to crown his head.

He passed a vineyard where the wine
was grown for men of royal line
and where the dregs were also brewed
into a gall for Calvary’s rood.

A purple robe was cast his way,
then caught and kept until that day
when, with its use, a trial would be
profaned into a mockery.

His entourage was forced to wait
to let a timber through the gate,
a shaft that all there might have known
would be an altar and a throne.

A poem by a 17th Century Dutch theologian and poet, Jacobus Revius (1586-1658), whose poems have been translated into English by Dr. Henrietta ten Harmsel, helps us face the hard fact that it was our guilt, our sins for which Christ suffered; we are the villains in the tragedy that is Good Friday. His poem is entitled He Bore Our Griefs.

No, it was not the Jews who crucified,
Nor who betrayed You in judgment place,
Nor who, Lord Jesus, spat into Your face,
Nor who with buffets struck You as You died.
No, it was not the soldiers fisted bold
Who lifted up the hammer and nail,
Or raised the cursed cross on Calvary’s hill,
Or, gambling, tossed the dice to win Your robe.
I am the one, O Lord, who brought You there,
I am the heavy cross You had to bear,
I am the rope that bound You to the tree,
The whip, the nail, the hammer, and the spear,
The blood-stained crown of thorns You had to wear:
It was my sin, alas, it was for me.

Finally contemporary Canadian poet Carol Penner, who is also a Mennonite pastor, reminds us that the events of Palm Sunday and Holy Week are not simply historical events; they are present realities. Her poem is entitled Coming to the City Nearest You.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you.
Jesus comes to the gate, to the synagogue,
to houses prepared for wedding parties,
to the pools where people wait to be healed,
to the temple where lambs are sold,
to gardens, beautiful in the moonlight.
He comes to the governor’s palace.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you,
to new subdivisions and trailer parks,
to penthouses and basement apartments,
to the factory, the hospital and the Cineplex,
to the big box outlet centre and to churches,
with the same old same old message,
unchanged from the beginning of time.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you
with his Good News and…
Hope erupts! Joy springs forth!
The very stones cry out,
“Hosanna in the highest,
blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
The crowds jostle and push,
they can’t get close enough!
People running alongside flinging down their coats before him!
Jesus, the parade marshal, waving, smiling.
The paparazzi elbow for room,
looking for that perfect picture for the headline,
“The Man Who Would Be King”.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you
and gets the red carpet treatment.
Children waving real palm branches from the florist,
silk palm branches from Wal-mart,
palms made from green construction paper.
Hosannas ringing in churches, chapels, cathedrals,
in monasteries, basilicas and tent-meetings.
King Jesus, honored in a thousand hymns
in Canada, Cameroon, Calcutta and Canberra.
We LOVE this great big powerful capital K King Jesus
coming in glory and splendor and majesty
and awe and power and might.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you.
Kingly, he takes a towel and washes feet.
With majesty, he serves bread and wine.
With honour, he prays all night.
With power, he puts on chains.
Jesus, King of all creation, appears in state
in the eyes of the prisoner, the AIDS orphan, the crack addict,
asking for one cup of cold water,
one coat shared with someone who has none,
one heart, yours,
and a second mile.
Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you.
Can you see him?

In Hot Anger He Left – Exodus 11:4-8 – 31 Mar 2012

From the Daily Office Readings

Moses said to Pharaoh, “Thus says the Lord: About midnight I will go out through Egypt. Every firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sits on his throne to the firstborn of the female slave who is behind the handmill, and all the firstborn of the livestock. Then there will be a loud cry throughout the whole land of Egypt, such as has never been nor will ever be again. But not a dog shall growl at any of the Israelites – not at people, not at animals – so that you may know that the Lord makes a distinction between Egypt and Israel. Then all these officials of yours shall come down to me, and bow low to me, saying, ‘Leave us, you and all the people who follow you.’ After that I will leave.” And in hot anger he left Pharaoh.

(Exodus 11:4-8 – March 31, 2012)

Why is Moses angry at Pharaoh? Moses (and God) have put the Egyptians through a series of miserable plagues. The people of the Nile valley have lived through water turning to blood killing all life in the river; invasions of frogs, lice, and flies; livestock diseases; painful, unhealing boils; hail and thunder; locusts; and unnatural darkness. Throughout the course of this series of events, there have been many times when Pharaoh seemed on the verge of releasing the Hebrews but then “the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he did not let the sons of Israel go.” (Exod. 10:20) ~ Over the years, I’ve read a lot of commentary on this passage, the introduction to the slaughter of the first born which is context of the Passover. Wesley opined, “Moses hereupon was provoked to a holy indignation, being grieved, as our Saviour afterwards, for the hardness of [Pharaoh’s] heart.” Well, yeah, but who’s responsible for that? Over and over again the Scripture tells us it was God who hardened Pharaoh’s heart! Pharaoh’s not just obstinate, he’s manipulated into stubbornness by God himself! Why be angry at Pharaoh? ~ I don’t really think he is. I think he was mad at God…. ~ I think it’s OK to be mad at God. We have the freedom to express and respond to that emotion, to own up to our occasional anger with God. When parishioners come to me and “confess” being angry at God, I tell them it’s OK, that God is a big boy and can take their anger. The issue to be addressed is whether they can! Can they pray their anger honestly? Prayer is not always peaceful and serene and believing that ought to be can be a real obstacle to faith. But praying out one’s anger is unfamiliar territory; it feels awkward; it’s not much like any prayer we hear in church. ~ Do you remember the episode of The West Wing in which Pres. Bartlett’s secretary was killed by a drunk driver? Her funeral was held in the Washington National Cathedral (an Episcopal church, by the way). After the funeral, Bartlett stays behind in the quiet privacy of the cathedral to offer a personal prayer to God … not out of sadness or faith or hope. His prayer is offered out of anger. He begins by calling God a “son of a bitch” and a “feckless thug.” Then, good Roman Catholic that Josiah Bartlett was, he continued in Latin. Here’s what he said: “Am I really to believe that these are the acts of a loving God? A just God? A wise God? To hell with your punishments. I was your servant here on earth and I spread your word and I did your work. To hell with your punishments and to hell with you!” No amen – just a cigarette stamped out on the cathedral floor, after which Bartlett stalked out. Pretty clearly “in hot anger he left.” Praying our anger is not like any prayer we (usually) hear in church. ~ Scripture doesn’t tell us what Moses did in or with his anger, but we do know what followed. The story of Moses’ “hot anger” and what followed it affirms for us that anger, even anger at God, need not be destructive. It can be the source of a rebirth of hope; it can heighten our confidence in the future, and empower us to undertake the creation of a new reality. Appropriately and creatively channeled, anger, even anger at God, can lead us out of bondage and into freedom.

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