Tag: resurrection

Human, after the Resurrection

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In these last weeks of the Easter season, you can feel our readings strain toward the next part of the story.  We are now past the grief of Jesus’ execution, the surprise of the empty tomb, the hesitant hope of the disciples, and Christ’s multiple visitations after the resurrection. 

Now, with new urgency, we are looping back to what Jesus said before all of that. From here on out, our Gospel readings will carry us into the urgency of the early church. They will compel us to hold onto the teachings of this revolutionary man and his disruptive, remarkable life, so, that we can get a grip on what it looks like, feels like, and takes to follow him. 

We often call Lent the “season of preparation.” But it turns out, Easter is also a season of preparation. In this season, in the brightness of the resurrection and the refreshment of baptismal waters, we are being prepared to reaffirm our own resurrected life in Christ to be made new, and to strain toward becoming everything God made us to be. 

In other words, we are being challenged to “do something” about the resurrection. Today’s Gospel reading makes clear what the resurrection calls us to: following in the footsteps of the “Son of Man,” we are to “love one another.”  

“Love one another.” It’s basically the brand identity of the church. It is the mission statement and driving ethic of who we are as followers of Christ. The whole of Christian scripture hinges on these three words. 

It’s simple, it’s obvious, and it’s part of Jesus’ inherited religious tradition, stretching back to divine laws given to Moses. 

Specifically, Jesus is referencing God’s commands in Leviticus 19: “Love your neighbor as yourself; love the foreigner as a native-born, do not ridicule the Disabled, don’t privilege people based on their status, respect your elders, take responsibility for the safety of those around you, do not pursue vengeance or bear a grudge.” 

With this callback to Leviticus, we are to understand that the love that Jesus calls the disciples to is not selective, or limited to the 11 people in the room that day, Because, as our passage in Acts also shows, the movement Jesus is building is an unconditional and unbounded one. 

Followers of Christ are to be known, primarily, by their self-sacrificial love. This is not so much a brand-new commandment, but it does solidify a new kind of community. 

Unfortunately, as a whole, humans have never managed to live up to the mandate. If we’re lucky, we can say that we have loving friends, neighbors, and families, but rarely can we say we live in a loving society, even in a so-called “Christian nation.” 

It seems that part of the reason this theological mandate is so hard to follow is because we don’t really understand how to practice it.  If it’s just a rule to follow, we will always have to work up the energy to do it. Because practicing love will always feel like an uphill battle in a world run by Judases and Pontius Pilates and Herods. 

We will never be able to love like Jesus until we understand that he calls us – not to define, negotiate, and judge people against love –but to become love. We are to be transformed, so that our first impulse is care, invitation, and relationship, no exceptions. 

We have to figure out how love becomes innate in us, not just a thing that we put on. To do that, we have to understand who Jesus is, not just what he says. 

Fortunately, there’s a clue in the specific way Jesus identifies himself in this passage in John: Jesus is called the “Son of Man.”  

In Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke, the phrase would translate simply to “human one.” In Greek, the language of John, it would mean something like, “one who shares in humanity.” But the concept is originally a Hebrew one: “ben-adam,” Son of Adam: descendant of the one who is blueprint of humanity. 

In the context of the Old Testament, the phrase is used most often to talk about a person who is literally just a human. The Jewish Encyclopedia says that ben-adam “denotes mankind generally in contrast to deity or godhead, with special reference to their weakness and frailty.” 

So, when Jesus calls himself the “Son of Man,” the human one, he is highlighting, not his divinity, but his humanity. Which is to say, the quality of his being human: material, physical, emotional, relational. And, the quality of his being humane: caring about the wellbeing of others. 

Jesus, the son of God, of one being with Father, is identified by the fact of his being a human. He is not denigrated for it, but glorified within it. 

Therefore, Jesus reveals himself as the standard-bearer for what it means to be a human. He is the archetype and the blueprint of the human person. 

And what does it mean to be human? Jesus says: “Just as I have loved you, you should love one another.” In this passage, Jesus redefines the human person as “one who loves.” 

When Jesus calls us to love one another, he is not telling us to muster up the energy and repress the resentments, to put on a virtue that we can take off again when it suits us. In drawing attention his own, incarnate, humanity, he shows us what it means to be human, in light of the resurrection. He shows us who we are to become in the Kingdom of God he has already ushered in. 

If Jesus is the blueprint of the human person – and the human person is one who loves, then we are out of touch with our own God-given humanity when we are driven by fear and ego to act in ways that are not humane. The selfishness, isolationism, authoritarianism, racism, deceit, and hatred that plague our communities are ugly distortions of the humanity Christ exemplifies. And if we are not careful, we will let our lives be ruled by these distortions. 

If we fail to define the human person in view of Jesus, we will give away a little part of what makes us truly human, in exchange for false security and broken promises. We will let ourselves forget that Jesus calls us, here – enfleshed, mortal and imperfect – to resurrection life.  He calls us to come out of our tombs to become love in a world that has forgotten its humanity.

The disciples who were gathered in the room with Jesus that fateful night in Jerusalem did eventually get the courage to be human, in light of the resurrection. They figured out how to love, how to change their minds, and how to stop worrying about what everyone thought about them. 

And in response, the church grew like a weed. The outcasts were welcomed, the hungry were fed, the sick were healed, and young and old, rich and poor, worshipped together around full dinner tables.  

The empire was threatened by the humanity of it all. Ten of the disciples in the room with Jesus that night died as martyrs. They died, because they had decided to become who they really were in light of the resurrection – human and called to love. 

Our faith does not call us to comfort. It calls us to love. It is worth living this way, because only in risking love can we encounter our humanity as God intended it. And only in loving can we experience the joy and freedom of really being alive. 

Will we accept the risk of humanity, and follow Jesus in his way of love? Or will we stay in our distortions, never getting out of the grave? 

The resurrection dares us to do something. And now is the time to act. Amen. 

References:

Little Lamb, Get Up!

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Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Reading available here (Track 2)

God did not make death, 
And he does not delight in the death of the living.

Last week, a group of us from the congregation went to the movie theater to see “Jesus: A Deaf Missions Film.” 

This movie is a big deal, because it’s the first film about the life of Jesus ever produced in American Sign Language.  And it was made by an all-Deaf production team with all-Deaf lead actors. (Fortunately for me, there were also English subtitles.)

I never saw the Passion of the Christ. And I still haven’t watched The Chosen series. So, for me, it was out of the ordinary to see the Gospel story acted out on the big screen.  I found it immediately captivating. 

The filmmakers made an interesting choice to begin the film with the Pentecost scene… 

The disciples had left the upper room, where they’d been hiding from political authorities.  They had been compelled by the Holy Spirit to pour into the streets.  

The film depicts these disciples signing in many different languages. People in the crowd who had never learned about Jesus were now receiving the good news in their own language – sign language – for the very first time. 

As a hearing person and a native English speaker, before watching that scene last Sunday,  I had never really thought about what a privilege it is to have such easy access to the words and stories of my faith tradition. 

It has always been easy to see myself in the story. I never felt like it wasn’t for me.  Because, for me, there was no barrier to entry. 

And, I think, because of that, I’d always thought of Pentecost as the moment when the select few people who comprise the church, of which I am a part, were empowered to share the good news of Jesus Christ to “everyone else.” 

But watching the movie in ASL, I realized that Pentecost was actually the moment when “everyone else” was empowered to be the church, because the Holy Spirit had translated the good news for them. 

Put another way, the disciples were instruments of the message, but they were not instigators of it. Their proximity to the incarnate Christ didn’t make them any better than those who heard the message for the first time that day. 

Now, everyone understood that Jesus, who lived and died as a human, identified with their fragile humanity,  regardless of their identity, language, or ability. 

At the same time, they understand that Christ, who came back to life, had invited them to something bigger than their fragile humanity.  All people were entrusted with the work of building God’s kingdom. They were invited to refuse the terms of their mortal existence, and to live into the abundant, eternal life of God. 

— 

After that opening scene, the movie goes back three years, to the day Jesus met Peter. From there, it closely follows the story of Jesus all the way to his Ascension. 

But, after my glorious Pentecost epiphany, watching Jesus and his disciples slowly walk across the grasslands and hills of Galilee and Judea, felt a bit like pulling teeth. Jesus’ earthly ministry was a lot of things, but in some ways, it wasn’t very impressive. 

What I mean is, it wasn’t flashy or boisterous. The crowds were small by today’s standards. And Jesus was kind of shy about his miracles, even telling some people not to tell anyone about them. Even his crucifixion was the shameful punishment of the poor. 

But something revolutionary was happening. Not necessarily because Jesus was charismatic or charming. Or because he righted the wrongs of the world with the *snap* of a finger. But because, every action he took proclaimed life in the midst of a culture of death. 

Every miracle, every interaction, every loving glance, and every decision he made not to give up on someone – these were seeds of hope, planted in depleted hearts. 

Everything Jesus touched, and everywhere he went, it was as if a garden had started growing. Jesus was infecting the world with a culture of resurrection. 

— 

In today’s Gospel reading, we encounter a pairing of two intense miracle stories, stuck together like nesting dolls. 

Here, illness is interrupted by illness, which is then interrupted by death. But just when you think there can’t be any more interruption, the spiral of death is interrupted by resurrection. 

First, the president of the synagogue falls at Jesus’ feet, begging him to come heal his daughter, who is at the point of death.  

Jesus agrees, but is confronted by a dense crowd as he begins to walk through town. 

Then, within the crowd, a woman who has struggled with incurable bleeding reaches out to Jesus. 

The contrast between these two people couldn’t be much vaster: Jairus is a well-regarded, male religious leader who leans on his social position to ask for healing. But the woman in the crowd doesn’t have that option… 

She has been rendered “impure” by twelve years of menstrual bleeding. (This means that she has not been able to participate in religious life for twelve whole years.) And she is most certainly not allowed to touch a man outside her own household. 

But Jesus is worth the risk of further social isolation. She boldly yanks the hem of Jesus’ clothing, a last-ditch effort at healing. 

Jesus doesn’t balk. He finds and affirms the woman who has been healed through his Divine power.  

“Daughter, your faith has made you well.” 

I can imagine the crowd murmuring: Can it be? Even the lost cause can be healed. Even years of grief can lead to hope. If Christ can restore this woman to community, maybe he can restore our broken society. 

— 

By now, Jairus’ daughter is dead.  

Twelve years old – alive as long as the woman bled – and nearly at the age of “womanhood” herself, Jesus was already taking a risk by touching her. But now, he will have to touch a corpse, in clear violation of purity laws. 

But Jesus still doesn’t balk.  He approaches her bedside, takes ahold of her hand, and raises her from the dead.  

“Talitha cum”: Which literally means, Little lamb, get up. 

I can imagine the crowd murmuring in amazement: Can it be? Even the dead can be restored to life. Even the deepest grief can lead to hope. If Christ can resurrect this child, maybe he can resurrect the dying world. 

In these nesting doll stories, Jesus reveals that his Kingdom is one where life prevails over a culture of death. 

Jesus does not delight in our grief, illness, hardship, or loss. Neither does he delight in the way we judge and ostracize one another. 

The “bleeding woman” and the “dead girl” are no longer defined by what others them and makes them “impure.” Thanks to Jesus, now there is no barrier to entry. Now, they are free to live, abundantly. 

— 

As we follow the story of Jesus’ earthly ministry, we journey with him on a path that leads to the cross.  It is tempting, living as we are in a world filled with death, to believe that the cross is the end of the story. 

But each part of the story of Jesus, from birth ‘til Pentecost, reveals a God who does not delight in death. A God who, in fact, refuses death altogether. Each relationship, parable, and miracle bend toward resurrection, not just for him, but for all of us. 

Our job as his disciples is not to decide who gets access to abundant life, because Christ has already made that clear: Everyone. Our job is to bend toward resurrection, by breaking down barriers that separate us from God and one another. 

We live into the broad and wide and growing Kingdom of God, when we refuse judgments that stigmatize, policies that polarize, and words that dehumanize.  

Our commission is to open the doors wide and join the crowd, where we might just witness a miracle: restored community, renewed hope, green things growing where death had entered in. 

Talitha cum. Little lamb(s), get up.

Jesus is calling us toward resurrection. 

Amen. 

Courage to Believe: Sermon for Easter 3

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As a young kid, I attended a Christian school run by the Church of Christ denomination.  When I was in the second grade, my teacher, Miss Terrell, taught us about guardian angels. 

I’ll never forget what she said:  “Wherever you go and whatever you do, your guardian angel is always with you, watching you.” 

The reason I’ll never forget what she said is because it absolutely terrified me!  What she was describing was some kind of supernatural surveillance state! 

It was made worse by the fact that, when you’re 7 years old, you suddenly become very body aware. I spent countless hours worrying that my guardian angel was watching me use the bathroom! 

As the weeks passed, it got even worse. I started having nightmares about stoney-faced angels glaring at me, with swords in their hand.  I was convinced angels were hiding in my dark closet, ready to crawl out and get me as soon as I fell asleep. I can’t even count the number of times I ran to my parents’ room and crowded in between them on the bed.  

But even there, I couldn’t get relief. The angels were following me. Always scowling and always threatening to cause me harm.  

There was no escape. “Wherever you go and whatever you do, your guardian angel is always with you, watching you.” 

One evening, I finally fell asleep in my own bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and noticed a warm light emanating from the end of my bed.  

There at my feet was what appeared to be a little girl, about my age. She was dressed in a white chiffon robe, and glowing like the sunlight at golden hour from head to toe. Though appearing like a child, she had an intense, warm presence. 

I sat up in bed and looked into her face. She didn’t say anything, but looked back at me knowingly. Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of peace washed over me. I laid back down and fell asleep.  

After that encounter, I was a different person. I was never afraid of angels again.  

The next morning, I told my parents what I had seen. Though skeptical at first, they kept an open mind. When they realized I was cured of my terror, they came to accept that something really had happened. 

At school that day, I drew a picture of myself sitting up in bed, with the angel standing at the foot of the bed.  When Miss Terrell asked me to describe my drawing, I told her about my night. 

And you know what’s funny?  She didn’t believe me. 

At the time, I was incredulous! How could the person who told me about angels not believe what I had seen and experienced? 

— 

Now, as an adult, I understand it better. I can muster more sympathy for Miss Terrell. 

The truth is, I think most of us have trouble believing that unlikely or miraculous events really happened, even when they happened to us. 

We don’t trust our instincts. We think we must have gotten something wrong: maybe we misunderstood or misremembered. Maybe we were too young or too tired or too gullible.  

And even if we do leave room for the possibility, what does that mean for all the times the thing we prayed for didn’t happen? 

In a culture dominated by rationalism, denial seems like our best option. Because, if we actually dare to believe in a miracle, people will think we’ve lost our minds! 

— 

Today we meet the disciples as they grapple with their own tangled up feelings of joy, fear, and doubt in the face of a very unlikely event. 

And we watch, as they try to muster the courage to believe, and then proclaim, that something miraculous has really happened. 

— 

To get a better understanding of what’s going on, let’s put this passage in context: 

At this point in Luke’s story, the women have talked to angels at an empty tomb, and two men have encountered a strange man on the road to Emmaus. 

After breaking bread with this apparent stranger, Luke tells us that “their eyes were opened, and they recognized” that it was Jesus. ‘They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road.’”  

Even before they consciously recognized that it was Jesus, they sensed his presence in their heart. But, in the space between their heart and their rational mind, doubt wedged its way in. And in the time it took to interpret their experience, the story was already starting to get fuzzy. 

So, when the two men tell their friends about their dinner with Jesus, it is easy for everyone in that room to be skeptical. 

Even after Jesus shows up, in the flesh, still bearing wounds, they’re not convinced. They’re still afraid to trust themselves. They’re still afraid of what everyone else will think. 

It’s easier, in some ways, to tell themselves they’re losing their minds, than it is to admit that their friend came back from the dead.  

Sometimes, it’s easier to believe in ghosts than in God. 

— 

Like those first Christians, we catch glimpses of the Divine, but we’re so quick to shut our eyes again. We hear stories of miracles, but we’re so eager to chalk them up to coincidence. 

We come to church each week for communion, praying for Christ to be “known to us in the breaking of the bread.”  But then we leave, not expecting this divine encounter to fundamentally change our lives. 

Whether you have personally had a mystical experience or remarkable vision, you have been invited to come to the table, where Jesus offers himself. 

Here at the communion table, Jesus says,  “Look! It’s me, bread made flesh, wine made blood. Look! It’s you, the Body of Christ, still transforming the world.” 

Like the disciples, we encounter the resurrected Christ whenever we reach out our hands and accept the bread of heaven.   

Our first task is simply to show up and experience this gift of Christ’s presence.  

Our next task, as the disciples will attest, is the harder one: to take the risk of believing that Jesus is present with us, and capable of changing our lives. 

— 

Our Scriptures speak to the timelessness of doubt – they remind us that skepticism is so very human. And Jesus, who lived and died as one of us, knows what it feels like to be human.   

He knows that believing in a miracle is just as anxiety-inducing as it is wondrous.  He knows that proclaiming resurrection puts us at terrible risk in a society more bent on death than on life. 

And the truth is, we can’t explain the mechanics of the Kingdom of God. Try as we might, we can’t rationalize divine encounter or divine transformation.  

The life of faith can’t be wrapped up in a tidy proof. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. 

Here, at the table, Christ calls us to leave a little room for possibility. He challenges us to expect a divine encounter. And to trust that God is near when our hearts begin to burn within us. 

Each week as we gather, we are learning how to believe in the miracle of resurrection. 

With our minds broadened to the possibility of hope, we have the strength to venture back out into a world of so many unknowns, and trust that God is transforming it. 

— 

Eat this bread, drink this cup. Leave a little room for a divine encounter. As the disciples can tell you, it might just change the world. 

I Demand to See the Body: Sermon for Easter 2

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When I first looked at this week’s scripture readings, I struggled to understand exactly how they fit together.  

At first glance, our Acts reading and our John reading don’t draw out one particular theme.  

How does “Doubting Thomas” fit together with…starting a commune? Like most things, it turns out that these scriptures don’t benefit from oversimplification!

So I kept thinking… 

It’s the Easter season, so it’s customary to continue in our story with the now resurrected Jesus visiting his disciples and friends. 

And on this day, we hear the story of Thomas, who, apparently, lost his invitation to the dinner party.  And thought he had missed his chance to see Jesus, in all his resurrected glory.  

Ok, so, that story’s squared away for now. 

But the tricky part of the way we read scriptures in the Episcopal Church is that, even though Thomas is always right here, waiting for us, on the Second Sunday in Easter, the other passages move around in a three-year cycle.  

That means that this is the only time in three years that today’s Acts passage is paired with the story of Thomas. Though a bit complicated, the lectionary cycle gives us several ways to encounter the unfolding story of Christ and his church. And to make connections we may not have noticed before. 

All that to say: when I dug deeper into today’s readings, the thing that stuck out to me was the fixation on bodies. 

Not dead bodies, but living ones. And, not just any body, but the Body of Christ. 

— 

With that in mind, let’s get back to Thomas… 

Thomas is an important part of the resurrection narrative, because he’s just like us. 

He says what everyone is thinking, even if they won’t admit it:  “I’m not gonna believe that Jesus rose from the dead, until I see it for myself! Show me the evidence!” 

And Jesus readily complies. A week later, Jesus returns and immediately tells Thomas: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 

Thomas doesn’t need to touch Jesus after all.  

In the presence of Jesus’ living, breathing, resurrected body, this body that still holds the battle wounds of death, in that moment, Thomas believes. 

And Jesus is more than willing to help him believe. 

Jesus goes on to say: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” 

Because of that statement, Thomas has been forced to bear the nickname, Doubting Thomas, for the last 2,000 years.  

But it seems clear that Jesus isn’t condemning him for wanting to see the body. 

Rather, Jesus is graciously acknowledging that it is hard to believe in him without any evidence. 

Jesus gets it.  

If the Gospel of John were turned into a play, this would be the moment where Jesus breaks the fourth wall.  It’s almost as if he’s looking out into the future and speaking directly to us. 

We are the ones who “have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  

But can’t there more than that? Like Thomas, I want evidence: 

  • I want proof that Jesus is who he says he is.  
  • I want examples of how God is acting in the world, now.  
  • I want Jesus to show up and start pointing to all the things he’s up to,  
  • So that I can believe that he really is paying attention. 

And I wouldn’t say I want any of these things because I don’t have faith. 

It’s just that the world is a tragic place.  

It is full of horrific violence that never seems to end.  Of illness, grief, fear, and so much anxiety.  There are too many people struggling to survive.  And too many people making their survival impossible. 

Sometimes it seems like nothing will get better. 

But, Thomas demanded to see the body of Christ and Jesus consented. In doing so, they both taught us that it is ok to make that demand. 

Well then, I demand to see the body.  

— 

Where is Christ’s body for us, today?  

Our Collect, which paraphrases the Scriptures, says that we have “been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body.”  

If we are part of Christ’s body, that means that we encounter Jesus, quite literally, in one another. 

In other words, WE are the living, breathing, resurrected body of Christ, for one another.  We bear the battle wounds of our own difficult lives,  and we allow one another to witness those vulnerabilities.  

— 

At first glance, this strange proposition doesn’t feel the same as Jesus showing up for Thomas. 

But, when I think about it, I can honestly say that the reason I’m still a Christian is because people in the church kept showing up and loving me. 

When I felt abandoned, they stepped forward and said, “here I am.” 

And every time I have demanded to see evidence of God working in the world,  I have only needed to turn to my right or to my left,  and observe my siblings in Christ doing that work. 

The church at its best makes believing in Jesus not only easier, but compelling.  Because we actually do catch glimpses of Christ when we reach out our hands in care for one another. 

— 

And that’s why the Acts passage has something to say about our Gospel. 

In Acts, we see how the early church showed up as Christ’s body for one another. They participated in a radical experiment to give up their personal property and share “everything in common.” In doing so, they ensured that no one in their community struggled to survive.  

As theologian Will Willimon puts it, this community showed the surrounding culture that: “The church takes care of its own, thus creating in its life together a kind of vignette, a paradigm of the sort of world God intends for all” (Interpretation Commentary on Acts, 53). 

While the church has never managed to broadly sustain this kind of communal living situation, this passage reminds us that being Christ’s body in the world is a serious undertaking. Just as we have received love from others, we must make it our job to share that love with others. 

It’s not always easy.  

In fact, this job of caring for one another as Christ’s Body is both the heart of our faith, and the hardest thing to do. It requires us to see ourselves as one part of the bigger whole.  It forces us to always imagine what is possible, instead of giving up when things feel too hard. It puts us in situations of risk and discomfort, because to be like Jesus in this world means showing up, even if the doors are locked. 

Caring for one another as Christ cares for us means we can’t give up on each other. And we can’t give up on building a better world. 

— 

The good news is, we’re not giving up. 

Just this week, I have spent hours learning about the history and hopes of this place. And I have been energized by your faithful labor and persistent care for one another.  

Limb by limb, the Body of Christ is being made visible. And the Holy Spirit is urging us to continue the work. 

Of course, the church has never been perfect. The Body of Christ has, perhaps, never been as visible to us as it was to Thomas. Because of this, there will be struggles and disagreements and roadblocks. We will have our doubts.  

But we can demand to see the Body. We can ask for Jesus to reveal himself, and expect to see him, quite literally, in one another. 

So, look for Jesus and expect him to show up. He’s already here. 

Amen. 

At the Fault Line of the Resurrection

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A Sermon for Easter

I shall not die, but live,
and declare the works of the Lord…

shot of hill country in texas with bird flying over
Photo by J. Amill Santiago on Unsplash

This morning, we join Mary and the disciples at the threshold of the tomb.

As we poke our heads into that dark cave in the hill country outside Jerusalem, we brace ourselves for the stench of death, and find it empty.

In the long hours after Jesus died, we were trying to be strong. But the absence of a body finally breaks us. Our worst fear already came true, when the man who promised he would save us, died on the cross. But now, Jesus is really gone, and it feels like a second death.

Now, hope is dead. And there is no possibility of closure, only the bodily ache of despair.

But, just as we are hit with a fresh wave of grief, we turn our faces toward the blinding light of the morning as a mysterious messenger beckons us:

“Do not be alarmed! Do not weep! The longing you have held in your body, the fear and the hope, the promises you were foolish enough to believe – all of it has been redeemed! All of it has been transformed!”

Against all odds, Jesus Christ was dead, and now he is alive.

Here we are again, this Easter morning, standing at the threshold of the tomb, gazing into an empty burial chamber in amazement. Daring to believe in resurrection.

We stand at the doorway between darkness and light, fear and hope, death and life. Here, at the threshold, our perspective is broadened. We finally have the vantage point to understand the truth of all things: Here, in this space between all we thought we knew, and all that Christ is making new, the way we order the world breaks down. The dichotomies no longer make sense. In view of the risen Christ, “even the darkness is as light.”

At the empty tomb, we see everything with new eyes. NOW, we live in the ambient light of the Savior, the living Word, who created all things and redeems all things.

There is no need to fear the future. Because Jesus Christ is risen, and all things grow toward his light. In fact, there is no need, even, to hope. Because what our ancestors have hoped for since Eden has already come true.

We’re not yearning for the old days, or waiting for better ones. Heaven has come to earth, and paradise is here!

New life bursts forth at the threshold of a tomb in Judean hill country.

Here in Austin, we are intimately familiar with thresholds, in the geological sense. That’s because we quite literally live on a fault line. The city is built on a geological landmark called the Balcones Escarpment.

map of fault lines and zones in Texas
Balcones, and the Mexia-Talco-Luling Fault Trends, where black lines are faults, the blue shaded area is the Claiborne Group, yellow is the Jackson Group, and tan is the Wilcox Group (Image: Public Domain)

As Austin resident Stephen Harrigan put it in a 1987 article for Texas Monthly,

“The Balcones Escarpment…is geology’s most fateful mark upon the surface of Texas, a bulwark of cracked and weathered rock that extends in a pronounced arc from Waco to Del Rio. It is the Balcones that creates the Hill Country, that sets the stage for the Edwards Plateau and the High Plains beyond. The cotton economy, for our schematic purposes, ends at the base of the escarpment, where the rich blackland prairie…runs literally into a wall. Above that mass of limestone there is only a veneer of soil, and the country is hard, craggy, and scenic—cowboy country. The distinction is that sharp: farmers to the east, ranchers to the west.”

On the east side of town where we are right now, you can still see traces of fertile farmland. Each day when I come home, I have to be extra careful not to track fine, black dirt into my living room.

But just a few miles west, the landscape suddenly transforms into hill country. The ground rises up in stops and starts to reveal red clay and rocky passes.

The first time you drive west toward Lake Travis, you might find, like I did, that “amazement seizes you” at the sudden shift in perspective.

Like the Psalmist, maybe you’ll exclaim:

“This is the Lord’s doing,
and it is marvelous in our eyes.”

The landscape here, not unlike the culture, is a juxtaposition of abundance and want, softness and hard living, simultaneously quaint and exhilarating.

But you should know that the Balcones Escarpment isn’t the only interesting thing about the fault line. The result of a violent collision of earth that occurred 20 million years ago, the Balcones Fault Zone also produced the Edwards Aquifer.

Basically, when the ground was pushed up into hill country, it was also pushed down into deep ravines and caves. Rainwater flooded these hidden caverns, forming underground springs that provide water to local waterholes, the Colorado River, and the households of most of Central Texas.

These aquifers are literally what make life possible here.

So, if you’re having trouble finding the fault line, just look to where green things grow and people gather. Amid the tumult, and against the odds, life is nurtured and sustained, right here, at the threshold.

Like so many who settled here before us, the perspective of this place might grip you.

Living here, at the site of a geological wonder, you are living proof of a bigger truth: that the ways we sort the world, into good and bad, salvageable and broken, safe and dangerous, habitat and wasteland, no longer make sense in view of the fault line.

From this vantage point, we see things differently: All of it is redeemable. All of it holds hidden possibility. All of it can be made new.

At the fault line, you realize you no longer need to let yourself down easy. You no longer need the old stories or the doubted promises. Things can be bigger, and better, and more beautiful than you imagined.

Here at the threshold, life is bursting forth.

Today we worship in a church, formed at a geological threshold. And we stand with the disciples, at the fault line of the resurrection.

We have held the black earth of the east while gazing up at the red hills to the west. We have drunk the pure water from aquifers borne of violent shifts below the surface.

We dare to proclaim that the old things can be made new. We insist that life is persistent, growing in crevices and dusty hills, against all odds.

We have seen with our own eyes how the death of an old world can create the conditions for abundant life.

And if all this is true, just about the ground we stand on, how much more is in store for us, who proclaim the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the redeemer of the whole world!?

On Easter, we declare that, even in darkness, life is bursting forth!

And so, we proclaim: Alleluia!

“O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?”

Christ swallowed up death and shifted the tectonic plates. Resurrection is here.

Two thousand years after the disciples peered into the empty tomb, we still bear witness to the Risen Savior.

We still dare to be faithful, in a fickle and distracted world. We still dare to believe in the reconciliation of all things, and all people. We still dare to see the bigger picture.

A dead man crossed the threshold of a tomb. Now, we know that life is always possible. Even death carries the seed of resurrection.

I shall not die, but live,
and declare the works of the Lord.

Amen.

alleluia!

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easter vigil

As the sun sets, attendees are given an unlit candle. Outside, the light of Christ is lit just as the last light of the sun settles on the horizon. Parishioners process in quietly and await the coming of the light of Christ as it is solemnly paraded down the center aisle. All are aided in lighting their candles from the light of Christ at the front, passing it on, candle by candle to those within their pew. The sanctuary is unlit apart from the growing light of Christ clutched in the hands of this body of individuals, awaiting the readings in silence.

Each contained fire flickers and flares – rhythmically, chaotically, still for just a moment – as members of the congregation recount God’s victory amid despair and oppression. Psalms are chanted in a resonating baritone. The mood is somber, but a quiet hope begins to swell as words of salvation are announced, as the chanting echoes across the high ceilings and glass walls of the sanctuary.

All at once, the room comes alive with light, parishioners ring bells they hid among their belongings, and the organist begins a triumphant song. All stand and sing:

Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!
our triumphant holy day, Alleluia!
who did once upon the cross, Alleluia!
suffer to redeem our loss. Alleluia!

Hymns of praise then let us sing, Alleluia!
unto Christ, our heavenly King, Alleluia!
who endured the cross and grave, Alleluia!
sinners to redeem and save. Alleluia!

But the pains which he endured, Alleluia!
our salvation have procured, Alleluia!
now above the sky he’s King, Alleluia!
where the angels ever sing. Alleluia!

For the first time since Lent began, Alleluia rings out again. The world was dark and cold as a winter night, but Christ is alive and in it and working once again!

tree blossom

The final verse of Wheat that Springeth Green, in particular, rang true for me this year:

When our hearts are wintry, grieving or in pain,
thy touch can call us back to life again,
fields of hearts that dead and bare have been:
love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

How I needed to exhaust my lungs with the singing of those words! After a long, dark winter, after several weeks of chaos and confusion and self doubt, after 8 months of not dealing with the weight of moving away from everything familiar and comforting, I needed to acknowledge the barren winter in my heart, clear the snow away, and discover joy without limitation in Love springing up again.

He is risen! Alleluia!

first image source: Catholic News/second image: my own

Lenten reflections & goals

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tulips

I grew up an Evangelical Christian, though thankfully within churches that provided a broader worldview than strict fundamentalism. Although I don’t recall hearing any explicit anti-liturgical speeches from the pulpit, there was a below-the-surface distrust of liturgical traditions as well as a widespread belief that Catholics weren’t really Christians (though I never understood that). The only parts of the church calendar we followed were Christmas (we also tossed around the word Advent occasionally while not actually practicing it) and Easter.

As I learned more about the founding of evangelical movements in the United States, I came to understand that this separateness – this stubborn individualism – developed, in part, to bring Christianity into the hands and hearts of the masses. I think that’s a good thing. But I also think that throughout the complex and tangled history of Christian movements, we’ve had a tendency to throw the baby out with the bathwater. As an adult now with a wider view of Christian tradition, I see value in the familiarity and routine the church calendar provides. As Advent left its restorative mark on the Christmas season for me last year, I anticipate that Lent, too, can provide opportunity for reflection and transformation. I’ve participated in it half-heartedly for several years, but I’m ready to make a commitment to it practically and spiritually.

Lent is a season of repentance and self-denial leading up to the observance of Christ’s death and resurrection. It is intended to remind us of Christ’s grandiose and restorative act of self-sacrifice on the cross juxtaposed against our own human frailty. We reflect somberly on our fallen state to amplify the grace that arrives daily with the knowledge that Christ is risen indeed.

Lent, it seems to me, is not practiced well if one only considers what one is giving up. My  high school friends from liturgical traditions would give up soda or french fries every year, but could never explain to me the significance of the act. I scoffed at their ignorance when I should have scoffed at my own.

Giving something up, it turns out, is about penitence: it’s not just a project in self control but a strict disciplinary action taken against ourselves, a reminder that we are rowdy and undisciplined by nature.

The vital next step is to realize that giving up bad habits clears up space for spiritual reflection. I’m terrible at meditating on the character of God, on seeing myself as someone in relationship to and with the Divine. It wasn’t always that way; I spent a long time wanting my old spiritual awareness back instead of recognizing that I could progress toward a new and better spiritual life. I’m ready for progress.

This Lenten season, I’m giving up rewarding myself with non-essentials (clothes, books, makeup, etc.) and taking on better spiritual practice. I intend to read more theology, pray more, and intentionally seek out ways to practice kindness and self-sacrifice. I’m replacing bad habits with good ones. I’m filling the void instead of wallowing in it. I recognize my shortcomings and repent from them more fully, I think, when I compare them to the vibrant spiritual life I could live instead.

I encourage you to meditate and reflect on your life in relationship with Christ as you trudge through these final days of winter, as you look forward to the rebirth and joy that arrives with spring.