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"Easter Day"
April 12, 2009
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
John 20: 1- 18
The Rev. George Smith
Alleluia, Christ is Risen! The Lord is Risen
Indeed, Alleluia. This is the call and response of the good
news that is being renewed and shared throughout much of the
world today. To add to our joy, it is a beautiful sunny spring
morning – actually warm enough for an egg hunt on the
front lawn following this service. The grass is greening up
and you can see the pink and white blossoms opening on the magnolia
tree on the front lawn. Hope and promise are in the air –
we know something exciting is happening. On the one hand, why
Easter is good news is obvious. The darkness and agony of Good
Friday was not the last word and Christ’s death was not
his end. He was not just brought back to life, some kind of
medical miracle, but raised to eternal life, into the place
of union with God – a place of perfect love, perfect giving,
and perfect relationship. Christ promises that this too is our
destiny – that a place is prepared for us. This is our
Christian hope and it is good news. And that is enough. As we
said at the instructed Seder two weeks ago – Dayainu –
which means, “it would have been enough!” But there
is more good news, and it is not just about our future but right
now, today and every day. It reminds me of the big Menard’s
billboard on North Avenue that has the word “Today”
crossed out – with the word “Everyday” written
below – and if you’re seen it yourself or listen
to the radio or watch TV, you know the message: Save Big Monday
Everyday! For Christians, we can cross out “some day”
and write-in “everyday” – There is good news
everyday!
So what is this everyday good news? When
Christ was resurrected that Easter morning, what changed? The
crucifixions did not stop. Rome and the Roman systems of oppression
did not collapse. They did eventually – but were replaced
by others. The widows and orphans were exploited as much on
Easter Sunday as they had been on Good Friday. The majority
of the people continued to eke out a meager peasant existence
as they always had. People continued to be people – acts
of kindness, acts of wickedness continued in the same proportion
as ever. We might like to think that the Christian community
that began to form was more humane, kind, generous and loving
than any before. But even our Scripture record reports quarrels
and political in-fighting from the very beginning. War, crusades,
anti-Semitism, marginalization of women, corruption, exclusion
and intolerance are bitter divisions are sad markers of our
Christian legacy and cannot be glossed over. So what changed,
what is different?
Last Tuesday, priests, deacons and lay people from around the
diocese met for the annual Chrism Mass at St. James Cathedral.
The bishop led us in a meditation on Holy Week, after which
there were breakout table conversations. At the beginning of
his meditation, the Bishop asked us to consider about our wounds
– the wounds we carry with us – emotional, physical,
and so forth. He told us a personal story about one of his wounds
– that twenty years ago, his son, Jonathon, was born perfectly
healthy but without a right hand. It was a shock that was then
made worse by feelings of pain and shame for feeling angry over
a new life that was not what he expected. The bishop’s
wound was the shattering of perfection that he had expected
for himself and his family. Then it was our turn to think about
and name our own wounds. It is hard to look at your own wounds,
and the usually talkative crowd of clergy fell silent. As clergy,
we are supposed to help other people face their wounds and problems.
To look at your own wounds is not easy or pleasant. We can all
agree that we live in a society that does not like to admit
to or talk about its wounds and hurts. We do a masterful job
of covering them up – with words, make-up, avoidance,
busyness and notions of progress.
I would like to share with you a wound that
came to mind for me. It is not the only one – and far
from the deepest or most difficult, but a wound nonetheless.
I need to take you to another place and time – to the
fifth grade and the “cage” – the basement
of the school gym. The cage, which is the same today as it was
then, is a large rectangular room with a low-ceiling, florescent
lights protected by wire mesh, cement floor, square pillars
and cinderblock walls. This is the place during the winter months
where we had gym class, alternating between floor hockey and
bombardment, the game where two teams whip hand-sized rubber
balls at each other to get them out. At the beginning of each
class, two captains were selected to choose teams. It seems
to me that the gym teacher almost always chose the same boys
to be captains - Jeff and Mike. We would all raise our hands
and shout “pick me, pick me” – and Jeff and
Mike would pick – one after another – Scott, Tom,
Ken, Steve, and so on. When they got near the end, the picking
strategy turned from selecting talent to avoiding liability.
Given my athletic ability at the time, I was definitely a liability.
Everyone had to be picked, but you can imagine the captains
thinking, “Do I have to have one of these losers on my
team?” When it got down to the last three picks, it was
a victory not to be chosen last. For me, there were a few victories,
and many defeats. Yes, I was picked last – and whether
it was once or thirty times, it was humiliating. Being at the
bottom of the picking order is a terrible place to be because
it makes you feel rejected and inferior. This was a wound that
was re-opened week after week, finally scabbing over later in
high school, but the scar never disappearing. This may be one
reason that I have found encouragement and hope in Christianity,
which at its best, presents a God who goes out of his way to
find those who are picked last and tell them they are loved
and of utmost value. As Jesus said to the crowd, “the
first shall be last and the last shall be first.”
Why did the bishop talk about his wound and
ask us to reflect on ours? What I have seen in my wound is that
God has worked through it and in it and still is, in ways that
bring humility, empathy, renewal and love.
We live in a society that does not like wounds.
We are masters at cover-up, avoidance and denial. By hiding,
ignoring or wishing them away, wounds do not magically disappear.
And I suspect that we all know this. It seems we operate in
a dual mode – fight or flight, so when we don’t
flee from our wounds and do in fact face them, the human instinct
is toward violence and revenge. Consider “Revenge of the
Nerds” – the 1984 movie about a group of outcasts
on a college campus who fight back for their self-respect. The
nerds turn the tables as they employ high-tech warfare against
the obnoxious jocks. The message of the movie is that successful
revenge settles the score – it’s only fair! - so
we root for the nerds who regain their self-respect, make the
jocks look like bozos and win the love of the beautiful sorority
house co-eds. Only in the movies.
The moral of the story? You might consider the message of the
movie to be a warning - be nice to nerds, because you never
know – they might just get back at you. But in the real
world, nerds rarely get revenge, so we don’t have to take
it too seriously.
Wounds lead to revenge or cover-up, and some wounds end in death,
where we want to believe that they are finally put to rest.
Perhaps our greatest fear then is that wounds continue even
in death where the crucible of revenge only grows hotter. These
fears are played out in such movies as Dawn of the Dead, Night
of the Living Dead and Friday the 13th. The dead rise out of
their torment, wounds intact, to take revenge on those who hurt
them – to settle the score – with more death.
If things had turned out differently, we
might call Dawn of the Dead by another name – Easter.
The stone that sealed the tomb was rolled away. The cloth that
covered Jesus’ head was rolled up – a deliberate
action that no grave-robber would bother with. Jesus is out
of the tomb. Having been betrayed, abandoned, whipped, and nailed
to a cross – a physical and emotional death that equals
the worst that humans can do another – what would we expect
this Jesus to do? If our movies are a good read on our thinking,
then Jesus is out for revenge. Appearing suddenly, walking through
walls, he will seek out those who hurt him, settling the score.
But that is not the Easter story. It would have been good news
if Jesus simply disappeared, limping off into the desert, ascending
to the Father, resurrected and not seeking revenge on humanity.
But the story offers even better news – it is astounding
and astonishing – better than good.
In the garden, it is early morning. Recalling
the setting of first garden, the garden of Creation, Mary meets
the risen Christ. This is the Son of God, true God from true
God, face to face with a woman of the earth. Instead of reducing
her back to a pile of dust with a bolt of lightning, the risen
Christ gives her this message to tell to others: “I am
ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”
My Father and your Father, my God and your God. These are not
the words of revenge but of relationship, not of violence but
of peace, not of rejection but of renewal. The Easter story
reveals not only God’s commitment to the creation, to
humanity, but that the relationship is reaffirmed and made closer
through suffering and death – that through the wounds
we are brought into the fullness of relationship – sharing
equally with Christ in his relationship with God the Father.
God’s ways are not our ways. Through, in and with wounds
and death, God renews his covenant with Creation. In our wounds,
God is at work, whether those wounds are memories of being picked
last, or whether they are broken dreams, a missing right hand,
losing your job, cancer, addiction to drugs or alcohol, racism,
discrimination, or indifference. God is present, at work, and
renewing those bonds of infinite love – that can never
be broken. This is also the good news of Easter and of your
God and my God, your Father and my Father. Let us be glad.
Alleluia, Christ is Risen! The Lord is Risen
indeed, Alleluia!
Amen.
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