Easter Vigil 2008
Have you ever longed for healing, freedom, and light? Have you ever felt hopeless? Have you ever wondered if there is any way out? Have you ever felt just what a tight place is all about?
If the answer to any of these questions is “yes”, then you’ve come to the right place.
Or more precisely, you’ve come to the right One. You’ve come to Hope Personified, the Way through all darkness, the Open Space when the walls are closing in, the One who is healing itself.
My words fail. Stories come to mind, stories that I’ve told before. Stories like when my best grade school buddy and I locked ourselves in an abandoned car, and what it was like to have the door torn open and to breathe free air. Stories like the daylong journey into the hills in Mindanao, first on motorcycle then on foot, through ambush points and adder-infested jungle. We came over a high pass and saw a hidden valley, emerald-green with young rice plants and tropical flowers and cocoanut palms and simple lovely huts beneath the sun. A hidden treasure, which was worth every step of the way.
These are small tastes, simple signs that God can give new life in the very teeth of struggle and captivity. When have you been given signs that speak of new life?
But tonight we are given more than signs. In word and sacred story we are told of captivity and release on the shores of Egypt. No cruel Empire, with its iron laws of sacrifice and wealth and power, can win out over God’s irresistible desire to make mischief with those laws and release captives into freedom. We hear the wondrous poetry of Holy Wisdom, the living Presence of God who speaks in loving womanly tones and calls her children to new and wise life. The prophet tells us we’re given a new heart and a new spirit, no matter how bitter and worn-out our old hearts may be. And all these tales of new life and new insight and release beat a path to the rough entrance of a stone tomb, filled with death’s stillness and death’s smell. But inside we find nothing, nothing but air and abandoned grave cloth and dust dancing in the shafts of sunlight. Tombs and graves are for the dead. The One we seek is alive.
He is alive, and all our pain and struggle is transformed. He is alive, and we do not need to fear pain and death. The Beloved has been raised from death by God whose love is stronger than death. And so whatever is hopeless, whatever is trapped, whatever longs for forgiveness and new life and healing and peace in us and in our world now can be, will be, and in faith’s mystery already is a new creation through the One who passed through captivity and betrayal, pain and death. In Christ all our pain and struggle is known and loved. In Christ all our pain and struggle is raised to new life.
Another preacher once said: Let none lament their poverty, for the Universal Kingdom has been revealed! Let none mourn their transgressions, for Pardon has dawned from the tomb! Let no one fear death, for the Savior’s death has set us free!
Whatever we have longed for in the deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts, it is here and more besides. It is here, and it is not a thing but a Who, the Living One who sets us free day by day until all creation is set free for all time. Today we’re all honored guests, all hoping for welcome, all reaching out for hope, all receiving so much more than we could even imagine! All are welcome, poor and broken, wounded and sinners, and even those who do not think they are! We’re all new as the youngest infant we baptize. See what the Risen One can do for us all.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Hope in death: 5 Lent
5 Lent A 2008 (RCL)
(Ezekiel 37: 1-14; Ps 130; Rom 8: 6-11; John 11: 1-45)
A memorable graveyard moment:
My Aunt Alice, my mother’s sister and the last fabulous survivor of my family’s “old folks”, died five years ago this May. I flew back to New York for the funeral. Like any good Irish funeral, there are lots of stories to tell. But my favorite moment came when the six of us and my cousin Paul were gathered around her open grave. The profound silence was broken by my brother Hank, who has no sense of the volume of his voice after a lifetime spent in sheet metal shops. Hank’s voice boomed, “Well, that the last of them!”
We put our heads back and laughed. But as we gazed down into Aunt Alice’s grave the laughs turned uneasy. Someone spoke in a softer tone, “Yeah, we’re the old folks now.”
Last week we heard about the joy of blindness, that if we think we can see we’d better turn blind so Jesus can open our eyes to what is true and real. Today we hear of the hope in death.
I try to be generous and kind when I attend funerals. But the older I get, the more critical I’ve become. I’ve smelled too many flower petals, heard too much sticky sentiment, read too many re-prints of that poem that says “I’m not really dead.” Tell that to the people living in the now empty-feeling house. We walk away numb from many funerals, never having discussed the silent elephant in the room. In a series of fantasy novels by Terry Pratchett, Death is a main character. He’s not a bad guy, he’s not mean, sometimes he is unintentionally funny. But he’s Death, and when he comes to call there’s no argument.
“Mortal, can these bones live?”
I think of the Killing Fields of Cambodia or the sites of genocide the world over when I hear today’s Valley of Dry Bones. Silent bones, absolutely still—as a young priest it took me a long time to get used to the stillness of death. But there in that stillness of death the living God asks the question and awaits our answer. Do we believe that the Breath of God, the living Word of God, can make the dead live?
What is dead and still within us and among us that cries out to God for Breath and life?
“I am Resurrection and I am Life…Do you believe this?”
Again the question—in the face of the stillness of death, can God bring life from death? Martha answers like most of us would, like decent religious people often do: “Yes, I know that my brother will rise again, will live again on the last day, by and by.” Jesus’ next words are outrageous—here before you, I am Resurrection, I am life. Now we have two choices. Either Jesus is a fool and cruel as well, using Martha’s grief as a chance to play theology and ego-games. Or Jesus is somebody new and outrageous and unexpected, that he is Life and that only those who are dead or have faced death can know the super-abundant Life that stands before us.
Even though Death and I are old acquaintances, colleagues even, I still shudder when I feel the faint touch of the icy finger or gaze down into yet another grave. “Yeah, we’re the old folks now.” But the question that the living One asks us today os more powerful still, and the answer isn’t an idea or a sentiment, something to make us feel good enough to get through another day. The answer is a Who, and he is here, among us and within us. In all our dying he is present for he drank fully of the cup of death. And if the Spirit which raised the Beloved from the dead dwells in us, the Holy One will give life to our mortal bodies too.
(Ezekiel 37: 1-14; Ps 130; Rom 8: 6-11; John 11: 1-45)
A memorable graveyard moment:
My Aunt Alice, my mother’s sister and the last fabulous survivor of my family’s “old folks”, died five years ago this May. I flew back to New York for the funeral. Like any good Irish funeral, there are lots of stories to tell. But my favorite moment came when the six of us and my cousin Paul were gathered around her open grave. The profound silence was broken by my brother Hank, who has no sense of the volume of his voice after a lifetime spent in sheet metal shops. Hank’s voice boomed, “Well, that the last of them!”
We put our heads back and laughed. But as we gazed down into Aunt Alice’s grave the laughs turned uneasy. Someone spoke in a softer tone, “Yeah, we’re the old folks now.”
Last week we heard about the joy of blindness, that if we think we can see we’d better turn blind so Jesus can open our eyes to what is true and real. Today we hear of the hope in death.
I try to be generous and kind when I attend funerals. But the older I get, the more critical I’ve become. I’ve smelled too many flower petals, heard too much sticky sentiment, read too many re-prints of that poem that says “I’m not really dead.” Tell that to the people living in the now empty-feeling house. We walk away numb from many funerals, never having discussed the silent elephant in the room. In a series of fantasy novels by Terry Pratchett, Death is a main character. He’s not a bad guy, he’s not mean, sometimes he is unintentionally funny. But he’s Death, and when he comes to call there’s no argument.
“Mortal, can these bones live?”
I think of the Killing Fields of Cambodia or the sites of genocide the world over when I hear today’s Valley of Dry Bones. Silent bones, absolutely still—as a young priest it took me a long time to get used to the stillness of death. But there in that stillness of death the living God asks the question and awaits our answer. Do we believe that the Breath of God, the living Word of God, can make the dead live?
What is dead and still within us and among us that cries out to God for Breath and life?
“I am Resurrection and I am Life…Do you believe this?”
Again the question—in the face of the stillness of death, can God bring life from death? Martha answers like most of us would, like decent religious people often do: “Yes, I know that my brother will rise again, will live again on the last day, by and by.” Jesus’ next words are outrageous—here before you, I am Resurrection, I am life. Now we have two choices. Either Jesus is a fool and cruel as well, using Martha’s grief as a chance to play theology and ego-games. Or Jesus is somebody new and outrageous and unexpected, that he is Life and that only those who are dead or have faced death can know the super-abundant Life that stands before us.
Even though Death and I are old acquaintances, colleagues even, I still shudder when I feel the faint touch of the icy finger or gaze down into yet another grave. “Yeah, we’re the old folks now.” But the question that the living One asks us today os more powerful still, and the answer isn’t an idea or a sentiment, something to make us feel good enough to get through another day. The answer is a Who, and he is here, among us and within us. In all our dying he is present for he drank fully of the cup of death. And if the Spirit which raised the Beloved from the dead dwells in us, the Holy One will give life to our mortal bodies too.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Toward God chapter 8: Models of Prayer
My apologies for silence these past couple of weeks. A little oral surgery and Lenten life intruded on keeping my covenant to post reflections on Abbot Casey's book.
Sometimes in the midst of all the weariness and demands I felt overwhelmed by the idea of 'blogging on "Toward God." Now I think I may have set myself up to fail. I think I tried too hard to write a complete summary of each chapter, whereas it's both easier and perhaps invites more response if I only share a few personal thoughts.
"Models of Prayer" speaks of two practices. The first is how good it is to base one's daily prayer engaging the Bible, and to carry a bit of that around with us throughout the day. Kind of like a "personal Bible"--words or phrases that strike one's heart that can be kept in mind, chewed on throughout the day. That happens for me more by accident right now, as I read the day's Office interspersed with silence and some chance for private prayer. Sometimes a word or verse jumps up and hits me between the eyes. Sometimes a passage feels awkward or off-putting, and it is that very sense of unease that makes it haunt me throughout the day. Sometimes none of these things happen, and I am distracted and fog out no matter how many times I try and bring my attention back to the text. Well, God's not a vending machine and the Bible is not some sort of spiritual all-you-can-eat buffet. I find myself just admitting my blindness and obtuseness and asking God to have mercy on me and that. How about the rest of you?
The other practice is basing one's prayer in the forms and spirit that we find in the Bible's own prayer. Although there are many examples, the most powerful and numerous examples are the Psalms.
The Psalms first crashed in on me as astounding forms of prayer when I was a senior in high school. The rawness of the speech of the Psalms, the directness of the address to God, and the rawness as well of the emotions of the Psalms--exaltation and ecstasy, rage and vindictiveness, depression and despair, wonder and questions, dryness and desolation--made me feel that there was room for me and my dark and brooding heart somewhere in there. I still feel that. Praying the Psalms daily is the one practice that keeps me even a little focused, that makes faith possible--on days when I feel nothing, the Psalms carry me, and sometimes even help me pray that "nothing" that I feel.
If God likes being addressed as the Psalms address God, then we are welcome in God's presence in all of our turbulent, unresolved, still-to-be-redeemed-fully humanity.
What have been your experiences with the Psalms?
Sometimes in the midst of all the weariness and demands I felt overwhelmed by the idea of 'blogging on "Toward God." Now I think I may have set myself up to fail. I think I tried too hard to write a complete summary of each chapter, whereas it's both easier and perhaps invites more response if I only share a few personal thoughts.
"Models of Prayer" speaks of two practices. The first is how good it is to base one's daily prayer engaging the Bible, and to carry a bit of that around with us throughout the day. Kind of like a "personal Bible"--words or phrases that strike one's heart that can be kept in mind, chewed on throughout the day. That happens for me more by accident right now, as I read the day's Office interspersed with silence and some chance for private prayer. Sometimes a word or verse jumps up and hits me between the eyes. Sometimes a passage feels awkward or off-putting, and it is that very sense of unease that makes it haunt me throughout the day. Sometimes none of these things happen, and I am distracted and fog out no matter how many times I try and bring my attention back to the text. Well, God's not a vending machine and the Bible is not some sort of spiritual all-you-can-eat buffet. I find myself just admitting my blindness and obtuseness and asking God to have mercy on me and that. How about the rest of you?
The other practice is basing one's prayer in the forms and spirit that we find in the Bible's own prayer. Although there are many examples, the most powerful and numerous examples are the Psalms.
The Psalms first crashed in on me as astounding forms of prayer when I was a senior in high school. The rawness of the speech of the Psalms, the directness of the address to God, and the rawness as well of the emotions of the Psalms--exaltation and ecstasy, rage and vindictiveness, depression and despair, wonder and questions, dryness and desolation--made me feel that there was room for me and my dark and brooding heart somewhere in there. I still feel that. Praying the Psalms daily is the one practice that keeps me even a little focused, that makes faith possible--on days when I feel nothing, the Psalms carry me, and sometimes even help me pray that "nothing" that I feel.
If God likes being addressed as the Psalms address God, then we are welcome in God's presence in all of our turbulent, unresolved, still-to-be-redeemed-fully humanity.
What have been your experiences with the Psalms?
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