(note--this is a precis of a homily delivered 7 Easter--Sunday May 24. The text references is Acts 1: 15-26)
This monastery had fallen on hard times.
It had not always been this hard. The abbey had once been full of energetic monks, working, studying, praying, laughing. Many pilgrims had come to pray at the shrine of the abbey's patron saint, and pilgrims mean offerings of money and prosperity. The church was full of local people and some who would come from afar to attend the abbey's beautiful Easter and Christmas services.
But that was now long ago, the "good old days." With the years, new candidates for the community had gradually decreased until now, when no one had joined the community for years. The members had dwindled to about 7 faithful grey heads. The cult of the abbey's patron saint had dwindled in popularity, until now no more pilgrims with their prayers and their rich offerings came to kneel and to give. And the great church was empty, even for the major feasts.
The monks tried not to fret about this, because the Gospel says "do not be anxious." But the thought of their future--was there a future?--weighed heavily on them all, from the Abbot on down. Finally the brethren, at the weekly chapter meeting, asked their Abbot, "Why don't you talk to the rabbi?"
The rabbi was the Abbot's oldest friend, a hermit who studied the Torah alone in a hut in the woods. Often the Abbot would visit him, and they would share the simple food that the Abbot would bring or that the rabbi grew in his tiny garden. They would share good talk, or they would share the silence which only very good friends can share.
The Abbot made the journey and found his old friend, who greeted him with delight. They shared food, and some talk, and some silence. The rabbi finally looked at the Abbot with wise old eyes and asked, "My old friend, something troubles your heart."
The Abbot took a deep breath and began to speak. He unburdened himself fully to his friend the rabbi--the gradual shrinking of the community, their increasing poverty, their fear that within a generation they would be too few and too old to even keep the abbey building and so the monastery would close.
After his words had completely run out, the two friends sat in the silence a long time. Finally, the rabbi looked at his friend the abbot, and said simply, "Well, the Messiah is among you."
The abbot knew well those moments when his friend would utter words and would be oblivious to requests to explain them, and this was one of those times. After sharing in the silence for a little while longer, the abbot took leave of his friend.
The monks were all waiting for their abbot and asked him eagerly, "What did the rabbi say?"
"He said, 'The Messiah is among you.'"
"What did he mean?"
"You know better than to ask that!" the abbot replied a little testily. "He's the rabbi, and sometimes he just says stuff and does not explain. This is one of those times."
As the days went on, the abbot and the other monks thought, and prayed, and talked when allowed about the rabbi's words. "The Messiah is among us. Where? What can that mean?"
One afternoon during silent meditation the Abbot sat in the church and rolled the words around in his mind--the Messiah is among us...
Surely the rabbi does not mean me, thought the abbot. I know I am not the Messiah.
And surely he does not mean Brother Egbert. Brother Egbert is a couple of candles short of a candelabra, not the brightest soul.
But, thought the abbot, Brother Egbert always has a smile on his face, and is capable of being cheerful and of raising our hearts even in the gloomiest part of the winter, no matter how hard life gets. If the Messiah were here, that is how he would be--he would spread joy even in our sorrow.
And surely Father Fabian is not the Messiah--Father Fabian is the grumpiest man this side of Saint Peter's Basilica.
But, thought the abbot, Father Fabian is the first to complain, but Father Fabian is also the first to show up and to work at a difficult task, and he never leaves until the job is done. If the Messiah were here, that is how he would be--he would call no attention to himself, but he would work and give where it was most needed.
As the abbot thought about the other members of the little community, he realized that none of them were the Messiah, but each had a part, each had something of the Messiah, if he were among them.
At the next chapter meeting the abbot shared his insight with the monks.
Something changed then. It did not change dramatically, and it did not change overnight. Perhaps it was that the heaviness of their anxiety and their fear of the future lifted. Perhaps it was that the monks recognized that there was more to each of them than met the eye, and they began to treat one another with a little more respect, a little more reverence even. The days did not seem overshadowed with dread.
That Easter, in the great empty church, a little family, poor young peasant couple with their three children, came and heard the great Mass. They shyly escaped before anyone could greet them. But they came back at Pentecost, and they brought their parents.
That summer, during pilgrimage season, the brother sacristan was startled to find a pilgrim, tall and lean, kneeling in the silence and shadows of the church before the shrine of the abbey's patron saint. As he stood, he placed a coin in the offering box, and the solitary "clink" echoes through the church.
And that Advent, during a rainstorm, the abbot himself heard a persistent pounding at the main doors. He opened them, to find a rough-looking young Saxon peasant standing, clothes worn, knife scar visible on his face. "What do you want?" asked the abbot, in some fear. The young man opened his mouth and spoke in Saxon accent the ancient words, "I desire the mercy of God, the discipline of the Rule, and to join your community."
Towards the end of his life, the abbot sat in the abbey's garden and looked out at this community. Strong young monks worked in the field, laughing, breaking the Rule a little, but never mind. They do things differently, they see the world differently, they sing the Psalms with different tones, but they are here and they are generous and full of faith. And the pilgrims come, from different lands than before, speaking in different tongues. But they come full of faith to pray before the shrine of the patron saint, whom they call by a different name in their own languages. As the abbot looked at his community, so different yet the same, he smiled. The rabbi was right--the Messiah was among them.
Well, I have been among you for 14 years now, and I can tell you with complete assurance that I am not the Messiah. But the Messiah is among us. The Messiah is among us, in the gifts of each member whom the Messiah has brought by speaking in their hearts. Long-time member, come just yesterday--the Messiah is among us. The early community of Acts knew this--that is why, after being shattered by the murder of their founder and the betrayal of one of their inner circle, they were able to just roll the dice and choose another as replacement for the leader who had betrayed them. They knew that the gift had been richly given. The Messiah was among them, and would open a rich future for them that they could not even imagine. So it is here, now, among us. The Messiah is among us.
archived musings and preachments
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Ecstasy
(note--this is a precis of a homily delivered on Sunday May 17/6 Easter--Acts 10: 44-48 was the main text)
Not long ago at a monastery in the Midwest, the novice master in charge of the newbie monks noticed that his guys were looking depressed. He called them together and, after a moment of silence, asked them, "What is it that you love about this life?"
They answered, "The ecstasy we feel when we are in the fields working, late morning or late afternoon. God feels so near, permeating everything--we feel in touch with the divine in all things."
The older monk then asked, "What's the worse thing about this life?"
They answered unanimously, "Standing in church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms, 7 days a week. Then over and over again throughout the day, every day."
The old monk thought for a moment, then said, "Very well. For the next couple of weeks, you do not have to come to church for any of the prayer Offices. In fact, I order you not to come."
After four days the newbie monks came to the novice master and said, "We didn't come here to be farm hands, in dresses." They asked for permission to come back to the daily prayer Offices, 3:00 AM and all.
The novice master asked, "What happened to your ecstasies?"
The young monks replied that they had faded and disappeared after the first couple of days.
The old monk observed, "I can't be sure, but it sounds like your ecstasies in the fields in the sunlight were connected with standing in the church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms."
Ecstasy can be spontaneous. But more often it is the gift of a life lived, a commitment honored.
We all desire ecstasy--it is a hard-wired human need. "Ecstasy" literally means "out of one's being", being taken out of our skin as it were, out of the little bounds of our routine and the ways in which the marvels of the world seem common and dull to us. Somehow we inhabit another place, or perhaps we are seeing the place clearly for the first time. Bliss, rapture, deep peace--this is all ecstasy. The experience can be very personal--one young woman says "dance" in answer to the question of what is her ecstasy, another older woman says "gardening." Any ecstasy has the breath of the divine about it--it is God who draws us out of our own skin and the skin of what we think is the everyday, and calls us into larger vision, larger joy and abandon, larger life.
To ask "What is my ecstasy?" is a spiritual exercise. There we will detect the whisper of God.
A community too can experience ecstasy, and perhaps not in the visibly enraptured ways that we may expect.
We forget that the early Jesus movement was thoroughly Jewish and probably more stern in its observance than the Pharisees. A Jewish Messiah had come to fulfill the ancient promises to Israel. When the expected fulfillment of Jesus' promise did not come and the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, the new movement may well have come to an end, just another enthusiastic little sect disappeared in the dustbin of history.
But the early community chose ecstasy, and this is how. Today's tale tells how Peter and the good Jewish guys from Jerusalem made a journey to talk to some Gentiles, those pork-eating, Greek-speaking, statue-worshipping, sexually randy Gentiles. These folks were off the salvation map, out of the question, despised. But Peter and the boys saw the same ecstasy in them as they knew in themselves. So Peter committed ecstasy--he chose to climb out of the skin of what he thought God was about and who he thought God loved and reached out his baptizing hand to these goyim, these Gentiles. And that is how the Jewish Jesus movement not only survived but spread and grew--an act of ecstasy, climbing out of their own skin of theology and prejudice and narrow imagination to see that God was greater and God was wiser and the people of God were far more diverse and God's desire was outrageous. And they were invited to participate in the ecstasy of God who strains to embrace all people, all the cosmos.
How are we to participate in the ecstasy of God? How are we to be that community of ecstasy, and climb out of the skin of who we think we are and what we think is the plan and desire of God?
Not long ago at a monastery in the Midwest, the novice master in charge of the newbie monks noticed that his guys were looking depressed. He called them together and, after a moment of silence, asked them, "What is it that you love about this life?"
They answered, "The ecstasy we feel when we are in the fields working, late morning or late afternoon. God feels so near, permeating everything--we feel in touch with the divine in all things."
The older monk then asked, "What's the worse thing about this life?"
They answered unanimously, "Standing in church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms, 7 days a week. Then over and over again throughout the day, every day."
The old monk thought for a moment, then said, "Very well. For the next couple of weeks, you do not have to come to church for any of the prayer Offices. In fact, I order you not to come."
After four days the newbie monks came to the novice master and said, "We didn't come here to be farm hands, in dresses." They asked for permission to come back to the daily prayer Offices, 3:00 AM and all.
The novice master asked, "What happened to your ecstasies?"
The young monks replied that they had faded and disappeared after the first couple of days.
The old monk observed, "I can't be sure, but it sounds like your ecstasies in the fields in the sunlight were connected with standing in the church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms."
Ecstasy can be spontaneous. But more often it is the gift of a life lived, a commitment honored.
We all desire ecstasy--it is a hard-wired human need. "Ecstasy" literally means "out of one's being", being taken out of our skin as it were, out of the little bounds of our routine and the ways in which the marvels of the world seem common and dull to us. Somehow we inhabit another place, or perhaps we are seeing the place clearly for the first time. Bliss, rapture, deep peace--this is all ecstasy. The experience can be very personal--one young woman says "dance" in answer to the question of what is her ecstasy, another older woman says "gardening." Any ecstasy has the breath of the divine about it--it is God who draws us out of our own skin and the skin of what we think is the everyday, and calls us into larger vision, larger joy and abandon, larger life.
To ask "What is my ecstasy?" is a spiritual exercise. There we will detect the whisper of God.
A community too can experience ecstasy, and perhaps not in the visibly enraptured ways that we may expect.
We forget that the early Jesus movement was thoroughly Jewish and probably more stern in its observance than the Pharisees. A Jewish Messiah had come to fulfill the ancient promises to Israel. When the expected fulfillment of Jesus' promise did not come and the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, the new movement may well have come to an end, just another enthusiastic little sect disappeared in the dustbin of history.
But the early community chose ecstasy, and this is how. Today's tale tells how Peter and the good Jewish guys from Jerusalem made a journey to talk to some Gentiles, those pork-eating, Greek-speaking, statue-worshipping, sexually randy Gentiles. These folks were off the salvation map, out of the question, despised. But Peter and the boys saw the same ecstasy in them as they knew in themselves. So Peter committed ecstasy--he chose to climb out of the skin of what he thought God was about and who he thought God loved and reached out his baptizing hand to these goyim, these Gentiles. And that is how the Jewish Jesus movement not only survived but spread and grew--an act of ecstasy, climbing out of their own skin of theology and prejudice and narrow imagination to see that God was greater and God was wiser and the people of God were far more diverse and God's desire was outrageous. And they were invited to participate in the ecstasy of God who strains to embrace all people, all the cosmos.
How are we to participate in the ecstasy of God? How are we to be that community of ecstasy, and climb out of the skin of who we think we are and what we think is the plan and desire of God?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Into the wilderness
5 Easter B 2009
Acts 8: 26-40; Ps 22: 24-30; 1 John 4: 7-21; John 15: 1-8
Yesterday at noon I was drinking beer with Quasimodo.
OK fine, his name is not Quasimodo, he’s not a hunchback. His name’s Parker, but like Quasimodo he’s moved into the stone bell tower of Mt. Tabor Presbyterian Church on Belmont and 55th. He’s there with the blessing of the congregation. And he’s not there to ring the bell. Michelle Harvey, Vestryperson, was with me. Why Parker is in that tower with the congregation’s blessing is a good story.
Mount Tabor Presbyterian Church is an old congregation founded in 1892. In their well-endowed stone church the congregation thrived in the years after both of the two World Wars. But now I’m told the congregation is down to about 40 people at last Sunday’s “traditional” service. They can’t pay their bills, they can’t keep up the large physical plant.
The congregation could have chosen to hang on that way of life to the bitter end, huddling close to one another, telling stories about the “old days”, badgering the central church authorities for more help. Instead they decided that they had to change if they are to have a future and if they are to continue to witness to the love of Christ.
So the congregation took all of their remaining resources and poured them into a new mission. One whole end of the building is being converted into an attractive arts center, coffee shop, and gathering place. They are making themselves an inviting place for post-modern, post-christian, de-churched or un-churched Portlanders to gather and to share faith and meaning and the challenges of their lives. Parker is leading this effort along with one of their younger clergy. When Michelle and I visited, we walked past a group of neighbors strolling around who were pointing and chatting about the work inside. “Yeah, it’s really nice, they call it Tabor Place” I heard one man say. It’s good to hear a non-churched person say something nice about a church in their midst.
I think what is happening at Mt. Tabor Pres is one way that today’s story from Acts comes alive. Philip heads out of familiar Jerusalem after that church is shattered by persecution. He runs into an unlikely man, a foreigner, a dark African who is also a eunuch, a rejected sexual minority according to religious law. Philip chooses to enter this man’s world and in turn is invited to share his space inside his chariot. Philip’s message falls on very fertile ground and the Ethiopian is swept away. He asks for baptism, and Philip freely gives him water and new birth. If you go to Ethiopia today you can see the result. You will see one of the oldest continuing Christian communities in the world. There Philip and the eunuch are honored as the apostles of Ethiopia.
Philip went into the wilderness. He did not stay home amidst a shattered Jerusalem church waiting for something to happen. Philip took the risk of trusting God and sharing the Gospel with a foreigner, overcoming whatever prejudice he felt towards dark-skinned folks or despised sexual minorities. He shared the Gospel gladly and the results were two Spirit-filled people and then a whole new nation choosing Christ.
That’s how faith is shared. That is how the church is re-born.
Back in 2007 we took one small step into the wilderness. We invited and welcomed our sisters and brothers of the Hispanic community, and we have been blessed. Today at the 12 Noon Mass we will celebrate our first Baptism. One of the lectors is a high school student preparing for her Quinceanera, who wants to be a communion minister.
How else are we called to be the church of Philip? What other wilderness are we being invited into? Do we see ourselves as struggling to survive, or are we called enter the worlds of more people we do not yet know?
Acts 8: 26-40; Ps 22: 24-30; 1 John 4: 7-21; John 15: 1-8
Yesterday at noon I was drinking beer with Quasimodo.
OK fine, his name is not Quasimodo, he’s not a hunchback. His name’s Parker, but like Quasimodo he’s moved into the stone bell tower of Mt. Tabor Presbyterian Church on Belmont and 55th. He’s there with the blessing of the congregation. And he’s not there to ring the bell. Michelle Harvey, Vestryperson, was with me. Why Parker is in that tower with the congregation’s blessing is a good story.
Mount Tabor Presbyterian Church is an old congregation founded in 1892. In their well-endowed stone church the congregation thrived in the years after both of the two World Wars. But now I’m told the congregation is down to about 40 people at last Sunday’s “traditional” service. They can’t pay their bills, they can’t keep up the large physical plant.
The congregation could have chosen to hang on that way of life to the bitter end, huddling close to one another, telling stories about the “old days”, badgering the central church authorities for more help. Instead they decided that they had to change if they are to have a future and if they are to continue to witness to the love of Christ.
So the congregation took all of their remaining resources and poured them into a new mission. One whole end of the building is being converted into an attractive arts center, coffee shop, and gathering place. They are making themselves an inviting place for post-modern, post-christian, de-churched or un-churched Portlanders to gather and to share faith and meaning and the challenges of their lives. Parker is leading this effort along with one of their younger clergy. When Michelle and I visited, we walked past a group of neighbors strolling around who were pointing and chatting about the work inside. “Yeah, it’s really nice, they call it Tabor Place” I heard one man say. It’s good to hear a non-churched person say something nice about a church in their midst.
I think what is happening at Mt. Tabor Pres is one way that today’s story from Acts comes alive. Philip heads out of familiar Jerusalem after that church is shattered by persecution. He runs into an unlikely man, a foreigner, a dark African who is also a eunuch, a rejected sexual minority according to religious law. Philip chooses to enter this man’s world and in turn is invited to share his space inside his chariot. Philip’s message falls on very fertile ground and the Ethiopian is swept away. He asks for baptism, and Philip freely gives him water and new birth. If you go to Ethiopia today you can see the result. You will see one of the oldest continuing Christian communities in the world. There Philip and the eunuch are honored as the apostles of Ethiopia.
Philip went into the wilderness. He did not stay home amidst a shattered Jerusalem church waiting for something to happen. Philip took the risk of trusting God and sharing the Gospel with a foreigner, overcoming whatever prejudice he felt towards dark-skinned folks or despised sexual minorities. He shared the Gospel gladly and the results were two Spirit-filled people and then a whole new nation choosing Christ.
That’s how faith is shared. That is how the church is re-born.
Back in 2007 we took one small step into the wilderness. We invited and welcomed our sisters and brothers of the Hispanic community, and we have been blessed. Today at the 12 Noon Mass we will celebrate our first Baptism. One of the lectors is a high school student preparing for her Quinceanera, who wants to be a communion minister.
How else are we called to be the church of Philip? What other wilderness are we being invited into? Do we see ourselves as struggling to survive, or are we called enter the worlds of more people we do not yet know?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Care and feeding of sheep
4 Easter B 2009
Acts 4: 5-12; Ps 23; 1 John 3: 16-24; John 10: 11-18
It’s a good Sunday for sheep stories. I heard two new ones this past week, from your fellow members.
One tale told of an old rancher back in Eastern Oregon. This old cowboy was a nice man who never wanted to hurt a fly. The storyteller said that one day he paid a call on the rancher and found him very upset. Asked why he was upset, the rancher said that he had just fired one of his foremen. When asked why he had fired him, the rancher replied, “I had to. The man ate his OWN breakfast BEFORE he fed the sheep.”
The old rancher was a nice man, but nice didn’t get in the way of how he knew a man was supposed to care for sheep.
The other story was told during an argument about how dumb sheep really are. “Sheep are stupid!” said one of your fellow members. “No they’re not!” replied another. “Oh yes they are!” said the first. “Not always,” shot back the second. “I knew some sheep that were very smart. It depends on the shepherd. If the sheep spend a lot of time with the shepherd, they become like the shepherd.”
Maybe it doesn’t much matter what the sheep are like to start with. Maybe it matter what the sheep are like in the end, and how they get that way.
I know that I am not personally the Good Shepherd, even though his words in today’s Gospel challenge me to ask what motivates me in my ministry, what guides my concerns and decisions—the hired hand? A delicate matter, since I’m one of the few on the payroll here. Or does someone else drive my ministry, someone more simple and more bold? But the Good Shepherd stands in the midst of all of us this Sunday and we are all challenged by his words and his example. He “lays down his life for the sheep.” He calls and the sheep know his voice. He does not run from the wolf. John’s letter says that it is not just the Shepherd who loves in this way; we are to “lay down our lives for one another…in truth and action.” What does it mean to be this community of the Good Shepherd?
The sheep become more like the Good Shepherd the longer they spend time with him. How do we best spend quality time with the Good Shepherd? Through prayer? Through the sacraments? Through engagement with one another in community? Through serving in the shepherd’s name? The only way we become like the shepherd is by spending time with him through our regular Christian practice.
The more time we spend in the Shepherd’s company, the more we become like the Shepherd, the more we share his mind and his heart.
The Good Shepherd feeds the sheep before he eats his own breakfast. What questions do we ask here: How can we survive? Can we survive without changing? Are these shepherd questions?
Or are these shepherd questions: how can we spend more time with the shepherd so that he can change us? And who are we called to feed?
The Good Shepherd has a large sense of his flock. “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice.” The community of the Good Shepherd does not wish to keep its circle small.
How can we spend more meaningful time with the Shepherd so he can change us? How can we best love one another? Whom else are we called to feed, to invite, to include?
These feel more like Good Shepherd questions. I’ll live with them today I believe the Good Shepherd wants us to live with those questions as his own beloved community.
Acts 4: 5-12; Ps 23; 1 John 3: 16-24; John 10: 11-18
It’s a good Sunday for sheep stories. I heard two new ones this past week, from your fellow members.
One tale told of an old rancher back in Eastern Oregon. This old cowboy was a nice man who never wanted to hurt a fly. The storyteller said that one day he paid a call on the rancher and found him very upset. Asked why he was upset, the rancher said that he had just fired one of his foremen. When asked why he had fired him, the rancher replied, “I had to. The man ate his OWN breakfast BEFORE he fed the sheep.”
The old rancher was a nice man, but nice didn’t get in the way of how he knew a man was supposed to care for sheep.
The other story was told during an argument about how dumb sheep really are. “Sheep are stupid!” said one of your fellow members. “No they’re not!” replied another. “Oh yes they are!” said the first. “Not always,” shot back the second. “I knew some sheep that were very smart. It depends on the shepherd. If the sheep spend a lot of time with the shepherd, they become like the shepherd.”
Maybe it doesn’t much matter what the sheep are like to start with. Maybe it matter what the sheep are like in the end, and how they get that way.
I know that I am not personally the Good Shepherd, even though his words in today’s Gospel challenge me to ask what motivates me in my ministry, what guides my concerns and decisions—the hired hand? A delicate matter, since I’m one of the few on the payroll here. Or does someone else drive my ministry, someone more simple and more bold? But the Good Shepherd stands in the midst of all of us this Sunday and we are all challenged by his words and his example. He “lays down his life for the sheep.” He calls and the sheep know his voice. He does not run from the wolf. John’s letter says that it is not just the Shepherd who loves in this way; we are to “lay down our lives for one another…in truth and action.” What does it mean to be this community of the Good Shepherd?
The sheep become more like the Good Shepherd the longer they spend time with him. How do we best spend quality time with the Good Shepherd? Through prayer? Through the sacraments? Through engagement with one another in community? Through serving in the shepherd’s name? The only way we become like the shepherd is by spending time with him through our regular Christian practice.
The more time we spend in the Shepherd’s company, the more we become like the Shepherd, the more we share his mind and his heart.
The Good Shepherd feeds the sheep before he eats his own breakfast. What questions do we ask here: How can we survive? Can we survive without changing? Are these shepherd questions?
Or are these shepherd questions: how can we spend more time with the shepherd so that he can change us? And who are we called to feed?
The Good Shepherd has a large sense of his flock. “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice.” The community of the Good Shepherd does not wish to keep its circle small.
How can we spend more meaningful time with the Shepherd so he can change us? How can we best love one another? Whom else are we called to feed, to invite, to include?
These feel more like Good Shepherd questions. I’ll live with them today I believe the Good Shepherd wants us to live with those questions as his own beloved community.
That's Easter
3 Easter B 2009
Acts 3: 12-19; Psalm 4; 1 John 3: 1-7; Luke 24: 36b-48
The lilies are faded and gone. We still wear white and speak of Eastertide, the Great 50 days when the church partied and kept the Easter party going. We have time to ask—what is Easter? What is the risen life?
One Sunday in Eastertide, a few years ago, the whole church sat in post-Easter shock. The clergy looked dazed, attendance was down. There was an empty feeling. The lilies were starting to look pretty sad.
The priest sitting next to me whispered, “This is probably more how it really was, that first Easter. Not many people, energy low, people in wonder or disbelief.” He smiled. “This is Easter,” he said. “This is real.”
This is Easter. This is real. When the drama is over, when we’re all dealing with our lives and wondering how the Easter news fits in—that’s real. That’s Easter, that’s the risen life.
“Do you have something to eat?”
That’s how real is Easter, that’s how real is this risen life. As the disciples speak, Jesus appears and insists that he’s real. He’s hungry, they give bother to say they give him broiled fish, he eats, and then he “opens their minds” to understand the Scriptures. I wonder why food and need and giving had to happen before their minds were opened? I wonder if we do things backwards in church—maybe we should eat first and then talk about God! That would be real. It has to be real to be Easter, it has to be real to be the risen life.
Years ago, a young priest named Ernesto left his comfortable city church and went to live with dirt-poor fishermen and their families on an island in Nicaragua. He abandoned the position of awe that clergy traditionally hold for Latin American folks and shared their lives. Ernesto worked with them setting the nets at night and mending the nets by day. One night a week he would gather with them by firelight. They would share a little food, then Ernesto would read a passage from the Gospels and ask people what they thought it meant. Slowly, shyly, they spoke aloud their fears and hopes—their fear of their own government and its soldiers, their hopes in God who came to live among them in Jesus and who promised them the risen life. Real people shared food and faith—that is Easter. That is risen life.
Easter is real lives transformed. Easter was in that first reading, where people are shocked because a real lame man was really healed by Peter’s word. In a world of illusions and shadows and fears, what is real will cut through the fog and will make us free. We are loved as beloved children, says the letter from John. That is what is real—all else is illusion. So if we are loved so deeply, act like the loved children that we are. Live into Easter, live into the risen life.
Easter is real and the risen life is real if we name it and grab it and let it take bones and flesh in our lives. I saw some real Easter yesterday. Something remarkable happened at the celebration of a wedding here, something that has nothing to do with flowers or cake or first dances or romantic pop songs sung by wedding singers.
During the Mass, the couple washed each others’ feet.
We wash feet once a year during Holy Week. But a couple chose that as part of celebrating their life. A demanding life lived together—raising kids, paying bills, doing it all over again each and every day. Washing feet to say all that—that’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
Long ago a saint called Benedict was praying alone in a cave. It was Easter Day, and the local priest was worried that Benedict had been alone so long that he did not even know it was Easter. He went to the cave with some food and said, “Greetings brother! It’s Easter Day!”
Benedict looked up and said, “It truly is Easter, brother, because you are here.” A kind visit, some food. That’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
People caring enough about their church to wear their work clothes and share work on a Sunday—that’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work…Bread blessed and broken. Simple life shared. Eyes opened, so that we may know that nothing is ordinary, ever again. Risen life quivers beneath the surface of all things, ready to dazzle us if our eyes are open. That’s what’s real. That’s Easter, that’s the risen life.
Acts 3: 12-19; Psalm 4; 1 John 3: 1-7; Luke 24: 36b-48
The lilies are faded and gone. We still wear white and speak of Eastertide, the Great 50 days when the church partied and kept the Easter party going. We have time to ask—what is Easter? What is the risen life?
One Sunday in Eastertide, a few years ago, the whole church sat in post-Easter shock. The clergy looked dazed, attendance was down. There was an empty feeling. The lilies were starting to look pretty sad.
The priest sitting next to me whispered, “This is probably more how it really was, that first Easter. Not many people, energy low, people in wonder or disbelief.” He smiled. “This is Easter,” he said. “This is real.”
This is Easter. This is real. When the drama is over, when we’re all dealing with our lives and wondering how the Easter news fits in—that’s real. That’s Easter, that’s the risen life.
“Do you have something to eat?”
That’s how real is Easter, that’s how real is this risen life. As the disciples speak, Jesus appears and insists that he’s real. He’s hungry, they give bother to say they give him broiled fish, he eats, and then he “opens their minds” to understand the Scriptures. I wonder why food and need and giving had to happen before their minds were opened? I wonder if we do things backwards in church—maybe we should eat first and then talk about God! That would be real. It has to be real to be Easter, it has to be real to be the risen life.
Years ago, a young priest named Ernesto left his comfortable city church and went to live with dirt-poor fishermen and their families on an island in Nicaragua. He abandoned the position of awe that clergy traditionally hold for Latin American folks and shared their lives. Ernesto worked with them setting the nets at night and mending the nets by day. One night a week he would gather with them by firelight. They would share a little food, then Ernesto would read a passage from the Gospels and ask people what they thought it meant. Slowly, shyly, they spoke aloud their fears and hopes—their fear of their own government and its soldiers, their hopes in God who came to live among them in Jesus and who promised them the risen life. Real people shared food and faith—that is Easter. That is risen life.
Easter is real lives transformed. Easter was in that first reading, where people are shocked because a real lame man was really healed by Peter’s word. In a world of illusions and shadows and fears, what is real will cut through the fog and will make us free. We are loved as beloved children, says the letter from John. That is what is real—all else is illusion. So if we are loved so deeply, act like the loved children that we are. Live into Easter, live into the risen life.
Easter is real and the risen life is real if we name it and grab it and let it take bones and flesh in our lives. I saw some real Easter yesterday. Something remarkable happened at the celebration of a wedding here, something that has nothing to do with flowers or cake or first dances or romantic pop songs sung by wedding singers.
During the Mass, the couple washed each others’ feet.
We wash feet once a year during Holy Week. But a couple chose that as part of celebrating their life. A demanding life lived together—raising kids, paying bills, doing it all over again each and every day. Washing feet to say all that—that’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
Long ago a saint called Benedict was praying alone in a cave. It was Easter Day, and the local priest was worried that Benedict had been alone so long that he did not even know it was Easter. He went to the cave with some food and said, “Greetings brother! It’s Easter Day!”
Benedict looked up and said, “It truly is Easter, brother, because you are here.” A kind visit, some food. That’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
People caring enough about their church to wear their work clothes and share work on a Sunday—that’s Easter. That’s the risen life.
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work…Bread blessed and broken. Simple life shared. Eyes opened, so that we may know that nothing is ordinary, ever again. Risen life quivers beneath the surface of all things, ready to dazzle us if our eyes are open. That’s what’s real. That’s Easter, that’s the risen life.
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