Keeping the Season

"Pieta - Death of Christ 01" by Waiting for the Word, on Flickr

Reading for the Annunciation of Our Lord: Luke 1:26-38
Reading for Good Friday: John 18:1-19:42

Mary Speaks
by Madeleine L'Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give power, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, light comes from you.
O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace, I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for, now I hold you.
May I be faithful to this final test, in this last hour I hold my child, my son;
His body close enfolded to my breast:
The holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; your work is done.

--
The Crucifixion
Anonymous, Irish

At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, 0 Swan!
Never shall lament cease because of that.
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah, sore was the suffering borne
By the body of Mary's Son,
But sorer still to Him was the grief
Which for His sake
Came upon His Mother.

"Dirty Garden Feet" by jana christy, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Washing Feet
by Robert Fawcett

Being thorough, I remove a holey sock
to view a diabetic man’s filthy feet.
I use the time to complete our talk
of what drove him to live on the street
as I wonder how any of this can help.

While he tells me more of his medical past,
I run warm water into a stainless bowl.
I immerse both his feet and begin to ask
myself what good it does for this poor soul
to allow himself to undergo this ablution.

Silently I sluice the water between his toes
and soap the crusty callous at his heel.
I marvel at his arch and notice how closely
it fits my palm. I know he can feel
this proximity too. He shuts his eyes.

Months of useless layers peel away,
revealing layers useless weeks ago.
Removing the tough brown hide of yesterday
yields clean pink skin, but we both know
this ritual will be useless days from now.

Still, this moment may withstand time’s test,
teaching us each lessons unknown before.
I learn the medicine of selflessness.
He learns what medicine is really for–
the hope that basin, soap and touch can bear.

"Night Had Fallen" by Fr Lawrence Lew, O.P., on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 13:21-32

99 Psalms, #2
by SAID

lord,
make room
for the rebellious one i am
for my angerless hands
for my selective loyalty
that betrays everything
except dreams and prayers

"Still Life Xmas Card" by Derek Finch, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 12:20-36

from We Would See Jesus
by Ann Weems

That it had to come to this!
That Jesus had to die
in order for us to live!
Just as wheat dies to the earth
and later bears much fruit,
Jesus had to die to the world
that he could live again
for all of us
that we through him could live.

I had a plant that died one winter.
Because of the ice-covered earth,
I put the plant in the garage,
thinking I would throw it away
when the ice thawed,
wash out the pot, and replant.

When spring came, I went to
the darkness of the garage
and there in the pot
the plant boomed green.
Resurrection in my face.

"feet" by Kevin K, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 12:1-11

My Silence is the Lord
by Brother Paul Quenon

My silence is the Lord,
I listen, his silence speaks at all times.
When I listen not, my hearing is filled with words
and my tongue takes to rambling.

My resting place is the Lord
a hideaway on a mountain height.
The lonely seek and find him.

My resting place is the Lord,
a low valley by the runlet.
All humble steps lead there.

"Turn in to my place and sit quietly.
Drink from my stream and my vintage.
Cast off your shoes, discard your hardships
and listen to my evening song:

"I seek a heart that is simple.
With the peaceful I spread my tent.
I will wash your feet and dry them,
my silence will be their perfume.

"In your quiet steps I will follow.
None will know whence we come and where we go.
To the world you will be my silence,
in your passing they will hear me.

"In your absence I will be present.
Though you die, I Who Live am yours -
I live as yours forever."

"Palm" by brooklin, on Flickr

Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, [Jesus] went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem.

When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’ ” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”

--
Friends, here we are, again, at the beginning of the end. Palm Sunday, our entry into Holy Week, the first movement of a long and difficult story that leads to death, and then to resurrection.

Palm Sunday is the beginning, which makes it a bit of a challenge to preach, because every sermon seems unfinished. Jesus has come to the city, but for what? We don’t actually hear the most important parts of the story until later in the week.

This year, as I kept pouring over the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem, I found myself thinking most deeply about the disciples, and about how joyful and confident they are in their faith today, and I started thinking about how their faith will crumbles as Jesus gets closer and closer to the cross.

Did you notice, when we read from Luke’s gospel today, that unlike the other gospel writers, he doesn’t say anything about palm branches? And the word “hosanna” doesn’t show up? And there aren’t huge crowds of people and children. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem is heralded only by the disciples (who are doing their best to make some noise) and the Pharisees (who are trying to hush them up).

Jesus comes down the path, and it is the disciples, the faithful ones, who can't hide their excitement about Christ their king, who is is Son of God, Ruler of the Universe, teacher, healer, redeemer. In this moment, they aren't ashamed of who they are or what they believe.

They "praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen" and they shout, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” It's a reprise of the song of the angels at Jesus' birth

Right now, on the hillside, with nobody but a few religious authorities to see them, they don't care that they are making a ruckus, they aren't worried that their shouting might offend the empire. When the authorities rebuke Jesus for this unsightly and unsanctioned demonstration, he says that if the disciples weren’t shouting, the very stones along the path would be crying out.

The stones and the disciples alike trust that Jesus is the one who brings cosmic love, forgiveness, redemption, salvation, peace, and grace to the deepest longings and groaning of the universe. I have no doubt that the disciples were sincere and earnest as they cheered alongside the road. They have noble and grand intentions.

But things are about to get unsafe. And difficult. And real.

There will be an awkward washing of feet and a last family meal. There will be an armed cohort rushing them in the garden, and a kiss of betrayal, and all of the sudden, the obnoxious but neutral Roman occupation will start to feel threatening, and Jesus will be treated as a common criminal, and all of the sudden, all of the beautiful, idealistic visions of Jesus's promised kingdom will seem less immediate and less important than keeping a low profile to save their own skins.

Do I think that the disciples intended to desert Jesus in the garden? Do I think that Judas, when he first started following Jesus, intended to become cynical and greedy and bent toward betrayal? Do I think that Peter intended to deny Jesus around the fire? Do I think that the disciples, looking post-resurrection, intended to be so afraid that they would lock themselves away in an upper room?

I don't think the disciples intended any of this.

They followed Jesus as far as they did because they believed in his vision of an upside-down kingdom. Every miracle that he did, every person he healed, every parable he taught revealed to them a beautiful world of hope and healing, running counter to politics and power as usual.

But maybe they hoped that Jesus was exaggerating when he said that this kingdom could only come through suffering and his death. And when things start to look dangerous and bleak for Jesus, and for the disciples by association, their fears start to overcome their faith. Giving into the anonymity off the masses starts to sound appealing. Staying silent seems more prudent than crying out.

As I've been preparing for Holy Week this year, I've started to latch on to the absurdity off this holy story at the very heart of our faith. That we need Jesus to be a servant, to give his body for us, to give up his pride and his life on the cross. That somehow death and resurrection bring salvation. It is a crazy-hard sell.

So I guess what I’m saying is that on days then the stakes aren’t so high, I’m right there with the cheering disciples who praise Jesus as king. And I am great at talking a big game about how Christ’s suffering redeems our suffering…when there is nothing in particular riding on those words. And sure, I can stand up here and preach inside the safety of the sanctuary that Jesus is Lord.

But ask me the last time I started a conversation about the saving grace of the suffering Christ with an acquaintance down at Java John's. Ask me if I always have the courage to believe that God really is suffering along side me when I am feeling lonely as I grieve for myself or for the world. Or ask me the last time that I shamelessly stood up for the plight of the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the homeless, the immigrant, the refugee, the outcast or the outlaw...without either first putting a disclaimer on my words, or following up my words with an apology.

I totally understand the reluctance of the disciples to keep up their cheering as the pathway led closer and closer to the cross. Sometimes, when the stakes get high, it seems far more practical and neutral to stay quiet, lest you offend anybody, and to stay hidden, lest you accidentally admit to yourself or others that maybe you don't have your faith all figured out.

This is exactly why we can’t skip from Palm Sunday to Easter.

I mean, if life were all Palm Sundays and Easter mornings, then faith would be only confident hosannas and joyous alleluias. And we’d send out the message that being a person of faith means that you always get it right, and you always live up to your end of the baptismal covenant, and that nothing bad happens and nothing ever scares you and somehow faith means that death or despair aren’t real.

Except that today we laud a king who is marching into Jerusalem not to pretend that everything is perfect, but to take on every fear, every doubt, every frailty. Jesus did exactly what we could never do. He took the difficult, awkward, painful, shameful, weak stuff in our hearts and in our world, and instead of bringing shame or judgement, he brought redemption and resurrection.

It is how salvation is meant to work.

God shows up in fragile places: in a helpless baby, in a mortal human form, in an outcast, a suffering servant, one who washes feet and touches lepers and reinterprets himself as the Passover lamb, one who is mocked, tripped, unjustly accused, hungry, thirsty, bleeding, dying.

It is the cross that exposes God. It is the cross that exposes us. It leaves nothing hidden and, more importantly, it leaves nothing unredeemed.

What a crazy story our faith is. That the God of everything would be brought to nothing so that all of your own weak and worried parts would be brought to new life. So that all of the dark shadows of this world might not win the day. So that the hidden things might be uncovered, and all might be brought to light. Your fear and your shame, our brokenness and our ailing creation. All of it revealed. All of it redeemed. All of it saved.

So maybe….maybe we give a little grace to the disciples this week. And maybe we give a little grace to ourselves. It is okay if we don’t have it all together this week, because honestly, the whole story of our faith is about to come unhinged. It’s going to get scary and painful and confusing.

So if you get squicked out on Maundy Thursday at the thought of someone washing your feet, it’s ok.
If you get angry at Judas for betraying Jesus and if you get angry at Peter for denying Jesus, it’s okay.
If you cry on Good Friday when Jesus dies, it’s okay.
And if you spend Holy Saturday in a fog, because you really aren’t exactly sure what happens in the waiting space between death and resurrection, it’s okay.

If you have grand intentions in faith, but get scared, it’s okay.
If you love Jesus but don’t have it all together, it’s okay.

The disciples didn’t have it all together, either.

And yet…Jesus died to save them anyway.
And he died to save you too.

Amen.

"Holy Saturday" by elizabethgrayking, on Flickr

"Love one another" by Paul Scott, on Flickr

John 13:1–17, 31b–35
Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord — and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."
---

Wendell Berry writes,

I know that I have life
only insofar as I have love.

I have no love
except it come from Thee.

Help me, please, to carry
this candle against the wind.

The winds are blowing in Jerusalem.

Judas already has it in his heart to betray Jesus to the authorities, who see Jesus as not just a political rebel, but as threat to the general order, to the established patterns of temple life, and to the Roman regime.

Peter is already having his doubts and fears. His misgivings and misunderstandings peek through when he misinterprets Jesus’ foot washing gesture. He boldly protests Jesus’ prediction of his denial, perhaps he doth protest too much, because he knows that he is likely to crumble under pressure, to flake out when the going gets too tough.

Pilate is in town, and Caiaphas, and crowds of people who are easily swayed by mob mentality. The streets are charged with religious fervor, with the celebratory affects of festival, with the latent political clash of God’s liberated people living under Roman occupation.

The winds are blowing in Jerusalem.

And Jesus carries a candle against the wind, along the path into the city, past the palm branches, up the steps into a small, dark, borrowed room where he sits, elbow to elbow with those whom he loves. He carries the candle of love against the tempest that is brewing:

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end,” we read.

For everything else that Maundy Thursday is about - holy suppers, washing feet, confessing together and hearing sweet and sacred words of forgiveness - this Thursday in Holy Week is always primarily about love.

The life of Christ hangs in the balance for saying radical things like, “All the commandments boil down into two: Love God and Love your neighbor” and worse yet, he has said stuff like “love your enemies, bless those who curse you.”

And now here he sits at table with his mixed bag of disciples - tax collectors and zealots and fishermen and contemplatives and betrayers and deniers. And at this table, he eats, drinks, serves, and then gives them a new command: that they love one another as he has loved them. A new command that love be his legacy and theirs. A new command to do the work of love, and by love to reveal God the Father and Christ the Son to the world.

The command is new because it is bigger than loving your neighbor as yourself. It is a new command to love your neighbors as Christ would love them. The new covenant in Jesus’ blood is a two-way promise of love. Christ, on his way to die for love of us. We, living beyond Christ’s death to bring his love to the world.

Loving as we have been loved. This is the candle we carry in the wind.

And the winds are blowing outside.

A few weeks ago, a bill passed in Utah to allow execution by firing squad. This morning, an attack on a university in Kenya was carried out by religious extremists. ISIS marches deeper and deeper into the heart of Syria. States in our nation are passing “religious freedom” laws that do not actually advance the cause of holy freedom, but hinder it.

A common thread among major religions of the world is the call toward love and service. And whenever religion interprets the idea of “freedom” or “liberation” as a way to love our ideas and reject our neighbors, then religion has failed.

Especially Christianity.

The new covenant in Christ’s blood, the meal that we share together, is a promise of our own liberation from sins, deaths, devils, and all powers of darkness. It is our promise that God forgives us, loves us, shows us grace upon grace.

We walk away from the meal holding onto two truths: 1 - that we have been shown liberating love in the sharing of Christ’s body, and 2 - that we are called and nourished to show liberating love to all whom we encounter.

Mind you, Jesus doesn’t ask us to like our neighbors, or to agree with them, or to excuse bad behavior, even. But Jesus does tell us to love one another.

There Judas is, sitting at dinner with Jesus and the rest of the disciples, and Jesus already knows that Judas is about to take off running from that upper room to give the secret signal to the police and the army that it’s time.

I can’t believe - can you? - that Jesus particularly liked Judas in that moment. And I’m pretty sure that Jesus didn’t agree with him. But Jesus loved him. Jesus loved him and served him.

And what of Peter? He is going to deny ever knowing Jesus, and he is going to pretend that he never walked on the water and forget that he was named the rock upon which God would build the church.

Around that last meal, I am going to guess that Jesus wasn’t liking Peter all that much, either. But he loved him. Loved him and served him.

Jesus took that towel and fell to his knees and scrubbed the toes of those whom he loved. How beautiful are those feet, the ones that walked the dusty road of teaching and healing and signs and wonders with Jesus. How beautiful are those feet, carrying the message of good news into the towns and countrysides. How beautiful are those feet, even as they will run off in the garden as fear and chaos scatter the disciples. How beautiful are the feet of the tax collectors and zealots, fishermen and contemplatives, even betrayers and deniers. These are the feet that Jesus loved.

“Do you understand what I have done for you?” Jesus asks.

“I have washed you clean and set you free. I have opened your eyes to see that you have been created by love, for the sake of love. I have shown you that love always manifests itself in service.”

“A new commandment I give you: that you love one another as I have loved you. By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you show love to one another.”

Liberation. Love. Service.

This is the way of Christ. This is our new commandment. This is our candle, burning brightly, that the winds of fear and change will never extinguish.

I know that I have life
only insofar as I have love.

I have no love
except it come from Thee.

Help me, please, to carry
this candle against the wind.
(from Leavings, 2010)

"Jesus washing Peter's feet" by Jim Forest, on Flickr

"Visible Judas" by Nicholas Damario, on Flickr

"Anointing His Feet #2," 2008 by Wayne Forte

"Dulverton - Saint Stanislaus - Palm Sunday Painting" by david cronin, on Flickr

Mark 11:1-11
​When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, [Jesus] sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’ ” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,

“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.

---
At the Minnesota State Fair,
walking through the livestock barns,
we came eye to eye with the tallest horse we’d ever seen.

His back, as tall as the top of my head;
his eyes, the size of oranges,
long-lashed and omniscient.
His head, towering above and
his mane, trailing down the slope of his neck.

Strong-stepped and graceful,
terrifying and gentle,
fully creature and yet otherworldly.

Next to his giant hooves, we were
but ants
or rodents.
The usual categories of “big” or “small”
seemed too narrow to contain
the height and weight and depth and length
of such a beast.

To ride such a creature would be to lord over all creation below.
Speed, height, strength, divinity, all conveyed
by the outline of a giant gentle beast.

But it was not upon this massive steed that Christ rode into the city.
It was not upon a Clydesdale, nor a racehorse, nor a wild horse from Chincoteague.

It was upon a mockery of a horse that this Savior came to town
(himself to be mocked).
He rode in on donkey.
On a colt, the foal of a donkey.

Humble beast of humble beasts,
low to the ground, pot-bellied,
like a zebra without its stripes.
Barely enough room for one man to ride,
slow-stepping, stubborn, clumsy,
a loyal but low down beast of burden.

Upon this ordinary creature,
an extraordinary Savior
crept in the back door of the city.

Pilate, doing political duty,
marched in the front gate
making an appearance (as politicians do).
The Passover festival meant a city
crowded with constituents.
His procession was
the hand of Rome marching to the heart
of Jewish celebration and identity;
He was a governor, lord over an occupied people,
marching in to celebrate with them
the ancient circumstances
of their liberation.

Through the front gate,
the noble procession of the Roman governor,
whose fanfares and banners and stewards preceded him,
who waved to a wide road
flooded with tourists and travelers and subjects.

Jesus entered the city from the other side.

Concerning Jerusalem,
Jesus did not hold the keys to the kingdom.
Concerning his entrance into Jerusalem,
there were no banners raised, no trumpets sounding,
just the cloud of faithful witnesses,
turning their garments into a fervent, pathetic red carpet,
decorating the path not with streamers and ribbons,
but tree branches plucked from the side of the road.

Who is this king of Glory?
The Lord, strong and mighty?
Is it this one, who totters in on a donkey’s child,
along a back road littered with leaves and muddy overcoats?

Hosanna! Blessing! -
to the one who comes in the name of the Lord,
who does not exploit the name of the Lord,
nor the fame of Pilate,
but turns his face toward Jerusalem,
setting his course,
riding in
knowing that he will not ride out
until his resurrected body will
ride up on the clouds.

Hosanna! Blessing! -
to the one who takes the back roads
into the back gates of
the holy city
but who does not turn backward
from his terrible destiny.

Palm Sunday is a story for
all those who sneak in the back door,
who arrive late,
who leave early,
so that no one will catch their gaze
or notice them
or judge them.

It is a story
for those who hang back
because of
fear shame vulnerability
grief anxiety secrets
doubts humility—humiliation.

Ride on,
ride on in majesty, king Jesus,
through the back streets,
through the back pews,
through the back doors,

ride on in pomp
to suffer
to die
to take on the depth
of our shadows and our tears.

Palm Sunday Jesus
took on flesh to save us in the flesh;
took on life to give us life;
took on the prick of pain and sting of death
to poke fun at the powers of
sins, devils, deaths…
and to trample them underfoot,
like broken palm branches marched over
by hoof and foot alike.

Hosanna! Blessing! -
if we were not shouting,
the very stones would cry out,
for the King of kings and Lord of lords
has come near,
has come here,
to fling wide the gates,
to be our courage,
to return our dignity,
to restore our lives,
to lead us from the back gates
to the pearly gates.

Hosanna! Blessing! -
to the Christ who comes in the name of the Lord.
He enters the city.
His face is set like flint

For this city,
the Jerusalem for whom Jesus wept,
is his destiny.

It is not his kingdom,
it is not his destination,
it is not his glory.

It is his self-emptying.
It is his demise.
It is his end.

And it is our beginning.

Hosanna.
Blessed is the one who comes
in the name of the Lord.

Hosanna.

"Women Arriving at the Tomb" by He Qi

Matthew 28:1–10
After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

---
It is a gray, rainy Easter morning. A far cry from the brilliant sun of the resurrection dawn that we would like to see shining above us.

But, truth be told, there is something telling about the gray morning.

We awake to so many gray mornings in our world. All it takes is a few minutes of watching or reading the news, and even the sunniest morning can turn gray. My news reading this morning included stories about Russia’s aggression in the Ukraine, about the continued search efforts for Malaysian flight MH370, the aftermath of the Korean ferry accident that claimed more than 100 lives, ongoing concerns over the Heartbleed Bug and internet security, landslides out west, shootings in Chicago…

We don’t have to look very hard to find the power of sin and death in our midst.

The author Sara Miles writes, ”Death, and the fear of death…drive so much on earth. They lie under all human violence, drive our sad struggles for domination, allow the manipulations of religion and empire to thrive. As a war reporter, surrounded by terror, I’d experienced the power death had to make me betray or refuse to help others. I’d seen people who were, in their souls, no more than walking dead: they were completely ruled by fear of the grave. I believed in my own churning guts, those mad days and nights, that violence was the real force driving the world. Death seemed unstoppable.”

Friends, this is where our Easter story truly begins. We, with the Marys and the disciples, approach the garden, feeling deep in our hearts that death is unstoppable. The doubting parts of our hearts keep expecting THIS to be the year when we do find Jesus' broken body there in the tomb, just like the usual way things work.

I don't think it mattered how many times Jesus told his friends and disciples that he would rise from the dead; they still came to the tomb expecting to grieve his body, not to find the cave empty.

We expect death. We expect what we know, what is usual.

Which is why we need the earthquake.

Did you notice the earthquake in today’s gospel? Matthew, in his gospel, isn’t subtle. The Marys don’t come to a peaceful garden where the mouth of the tomb is already gaping open. They arrive to a closed tomb, and then the whole earth begins to tremble. The ground beneath their feet shakes, the trees quiver and birds fly from the branches in fear, dust and pebbles shake loose, and a messenger of the Lord, descending in a flash of light, moves the stone from the mouth of the tomb in dramatic fashion. The scene is so startling, so overwhelming, that the guards at the tomb fall to the ground, paralyzed.

I had a Sunday School teacher who liked to say, “God sends bricks,” meaning that when God wanted to tell you something, there’d be no question, no mystery about it. God sends bricks to hit you over the head.

On this Easter morning, perhaps we should instead say, “God sends earthquakes.”

The earthquake happens to that there might be no question about the power of God. Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed. Resurrection is real, and life, and the whole earth trembles before the power of God to do the impossible. The unthinkable. The terrifyingly unexpected.

We come to the empty tomb again and again, because we need to be shaken up, because we forget, because we keep believing that death is the final word, because we still never expect resurrection because it just doesn't make sense.

The resurrection is the surprising, startling good news that death does not win, that dry bones will live again, that the floods will not overwhelm us, that sin has no hold on us, that we are not doomed to endless night, brokenness, shame, or fear.

The resurrection is new life springing up from the cracks. It is the sunshine rising in the morning, and new shoots rising from the well-watered earth. It is the power of God to break through stony hearts with the unlimited power of grace and mercy. The resurrection is what makes our hearts leap for joy, knowing that even though we die, we will live, and that whoever lives and believes in Christ will never die.

The resurrection is the flash of new creation before our eyes, the jarring news to our souls that when we pray “your kingdom come, your will be done,” this kingdom has already come, and God is already here, doing his will in us and among us.

I still hear the words of last night's Easter Vigil ringing in my ears as we sang,

Rejoice, now, all heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels! Exult, all creation around God’s throne! Celebrate the divine mysteries with exultation; and for so great a victory, sound the trumpet of salvation.

Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor, radiant in the brightness of your King! Christ has conquered! Glory fills you! Darkness vanishes forever.

Rejoice, O holy church! Exult in glory! The risen Savior shines upon you!
Let this place resound with joy, echoing the mighty song of all God’s people.

Today the sun rises on a world triumphant. The darkness of Good Friday and the finality of death have been dispelled by the shining brightness of Christ's resurrection. This resurrection shakes the whole cosmos and redeems it.

I do not know what is going to happen in the Ukraine, nor do I know how to ease the grief of those missing loved ones after plane crashes and shipwrecks. But one thing I do know: I know that my redeemer lives.

Sara Miles finishes her opening thought by saying this: “Christ, crucified, has come to sweep away fear. The power to reject and hurt and kill is shown by Jesus as, finally, irrelevant, in the face of the power to love so unreservedly that you gladly pour out your life for others. God’s weakness turns out to be stronger than human strength. Even death is over"(Jesus Freak, p. 125-126).

Yes, I know that my redeemer lives.

I know that the redeemer of the whole world passed through death, and carried with him the weight of the world, so that neither life nor death, angels nor demons, things present or things to come, neither height nor depth or anything in all creation can separate us from the love and life of God.

I know the hope to which I cling: that in Christ is life and life abundant, hope for our weary world, peace for our restless souls, water for our parched lips, nourishment for our hungry spirits.

I may know nothing else, but I do know that my redeemer lives.

And so we say with confidence,

Christ is risen!

He is risen indeed!

Alleluia!

"poppies sunrise" by C-Smooth, on Flickr

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Easter Morning
by Ann Weems

The stirring wildness of God
Calls brittle bones to leaping
And stone hearts to soaring.
Old women dance among the stars.

"Pebble balancing..." by Giulia Torra, on Flickr

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Mary Magdalene, Remembering:
by Madeleine L'Engle

All time is holy.
We move through the dark
following his footprints by touch.
He walked the lonesome valley.
His time is holy.

We will break bread together.
We will move through the dark.
He has gone away from us.
The wine is poured out.
We will eat broken bread.

That Friday was good.
We will move through the dark.
Death died on Friday.
The blood-stained cross bore hope.
His Friday is good.

We will hold hands
as we move through the dark.
Saturday he walked through hell,
making all things new.
We will hold hands.

This is the meaning
of our walk through the dark.
Love’s light will lead us
through the stone at the tomb.
He is the meaning.

He called me by name
as I stood in the dark.
Suddenly I knew him.
He came. Then he left us,
he will come again.

"#crucifix" by p7taylor, on Flickr

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Crucifixion
by Anna Akhmatova

"Weep not for Me, Mother,
in the grave I have life."

I.

The choir of angels glorified the great hour,
the heavens melted in flames.
He said to His Father: "Why hast Thou forsaken me?"
and to His Mother: "Oh, weep not for Me..."

II.

Mary Magdalene smote her breast and wept,
the disciple whom He loved turned to stone,
but where the Mother stood in silence
nobody even dared look.

"Painted Woman Feet With Henna, Lamu, Kenya" by Eric Lafforgue, on Flickr

---

My Grandmother Washes Her Feet in the Sink of the Bathroom at Sears
by Mohja Kahf

My grandmother puts her feet in the sink
of the bathroom at Sears
to wash them in the ritual washing for prayer,
wudu,
because she has to pray in the store or miss
the mandatory prayer time for Muslims
She does it with great poise, balancing
herself with one plump matronly arm
against the automated hot-air hand dryer,
after having removed her support knee-highs
and laid them aside, folded in thirds,
and given me her purse and her packages to hold
so she can accomplish this august ritual
and get back to the ritual of shopping for housewares

Respectable Sears matrons shake their heads and frown
as they notice what my grandmother is doing,
an affront to American porcelain,
a contamination of American Standards
by something foreign and unhygienic
requiring civic action and possible use of disinfectant spray
They fluster about and flutter their hands and I can see
a clash of civilizations brewing in the Sears bathroom

My grandmother, though she speaks no English,
catches their meaning and her look in the mirror says,
I have washed my feet over Iznik tile in Istanbul
with water from the world's ancient irrigation systems
I have washed my feet in the bathhouses of Damascus
over painted bowls imported from China
among the best families of Aleppo
And if you Americans knew anything
about civilization and cleanliness,
you'd make wider washbins, anyway
My grandmother knows one culture—the right one,

as do these matrons of the Middle West. For them,
my grandmother might as well have been squatting
in the mud over a rusty tin in vaguely tropical squalor,
Mexican or Middle Eastern, it doesn't matter which,
when she lifts her well-groomed foot and puts it over the edge.
"You can't do that," one of the women protests,
turning to me, "Tell her she can't do that."
"We wash our feet five times a day,"
my grandmother declares hotly in Arabic.
"My feet are cleaner than their sink.
Worried about their sink, are they? I
should worry about my feet!"
My grandmother nudges me, "Go on, tell them."

Standing between the door and the mirror, I can see
at multiple angles, my grandmother and the other shoppers,
all of them decent and goodhearted women, diligent
in cleanliness, grooming, and decorum
Even now my grandmother, not to be rushed,
is delicately drying her pumps with tissues from her purse
For my grandmother always wears well-turned pumps
that match her purse, I think in case someone
from one of the best families of Aleppo
should run into her—here, in front of the Kenmore display

I smile at the midwestern women
as if my grandmother has just said something lovely about them
and shrug at my grandmother as if they
had just apologized through me
No one is fooled, but I

hold the door open for everyone
and we all emerge on the sales floor
and lose ourselves in the great common ground
of housewares on markdown.

"About to gorge on some homemade bread dip before supper!" by Sarah S, on Flickr

---

The Cat at the Last Supper
by Roy Marz

Ghirlandaio let it sit
On the tiles between Judas and Jude,
Brindle and Iscariot's pet,

Bored with John's stricken stutter
And Andrew's fist aghast in the cherries
And Simon's trouble with the pewter.

Though the peacock's lucent pale blue
Spill of tail from the windowsill
Interested as a nuisance value,

Really the carbon irises
Kindled for birds through the open lunette
Or delicacies in the cypresses;

And whiskers rigid for rare spoil
Flicked hauteur at the broken bread
The taut master dropped on the tile...

Needles of shock on the brindle marble
Were affront. It primly mewed
Blood back in the paralyzed table,

And negatives in the nervous beards
Jangled the peacock metred to silence
But tocsined the giddy outside birds.

"unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" by Aaron Klinefelter, on Flickr

---

In Harvest
by Sophie Jewett

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;
I linger, for the hay is sweet,
New-cut and curing in the sun.
Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,
Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent
When, yesterday, the west wind went
A-rioting through grass and grain.
To-day no least breath stirs the plain;
Only the hot air, quivering, yields
Illusive motion to the fields
Where not the slenderest tassel swings.
Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;
A goldfinch dangles from a tall,
Full-flowered yellow mullein; all
The world seems turning blue and gold.
Unstartled, since, even from of old,
Beauty has brought keen sense of her,
I feel the withering grasses stir;
Along the edges of the wheat,
I hear the rustle of her feet:
And yet I know the whole sea lies,
And half the earth, between our eyes.