Easter Lingering

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

In case you haven’t noticed, in the Episcopal Church, we have a real thing for nicknaming Sundays. Last week, the second Sunday of Easter, we often call “Low Sunday,” and next week is “Good Shepherd Sunday.” We have Laetare Sunday in Lent and Gaudete Sunday in Advent. And then there’s Septuagesima Sunday, Christ the King Sunday, Transfiguration Sunday – even the lesser well-known Quasimodo Sunday. (Ask me about that one after the Mass if you’re curious).

This week we celebrate Déjà vu Sunday. Déjà vu is taken from the French phrase that means “already seen.” It was coined by a 19^th century psychic researcher named Émile Boirac to describe the phenomenon of experiencing something that seems eerily familiar, something that you remember, but you can’t possibly remember, something that…okay. You’re right. I cannot tell a lie; there is no Déjà vu Sunday. (There is a Quasimodo Sunday, though, I promise you.) But if there were ever going to be a Déjà vu Sunday, this would be it. Because as you stood there a minute ago listening to the proclamation of the Gospel, wasn’t there a little voice in your head saying, “Something like this has happened before…this Gospel seems weirdly familiar…”? Something like this has happened before, like, last week, when we heard John’s Gospel telling almost the exact same story. The disciples are shut up in a room, hiding, or regrouping, or something, and Jesus appears among them and says, “Peace be with you.” They are astounded and amazed, and so Jesus shows them his wounds to prove that he is, in fact, their Lord – the same Jesus Christ who was crucified, dead, and buried. Same Jesus Christ; same story. There are some differences, of course. Thomas is noticeably, noisily absent from the group in John’s telling of the story, but in Luke, everyone seems to be present and accounted for. And Jesus is hungrier in the Gospel of Luke, taking time to eat a piece of fish, reminding the disciples of other times they have watched him enjoy his food – sitting by the sea of Galilee, breaking the loaves and the fishes, offering his body and his blood.

But for the most part, these two Gospel stories are remarkably similar. So similar, in fact, that it’s a little surprising that the Church asks that we hear them two weeks in a row. Could you imagine doing that at other times of the year? Coming into church in July and hearing the story of Jesus’ calming of the stormy sea from the Gospel of Matthew, and then the next week hearing the same story from Mark, the next week from Luke? That could be quite interesting, actually, but the Church lectionary doesn’t usually behave that way – except for these weeks in Eastertide when the readings repeat themselves a bit. And so two full weeks after Easter Day, we find ourselves back at Easter evening with the disciples who are just hearing the remarkable, ridiculous news of the resurrection.

Now, there may be a little part of us that feels ready to move on. Where does the story go from here – what happens next? When do we get to hear about the breakfast on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, when will Jesus ascend into heaven, when does that great Holy Spirit dive down on the disciples? What’s next? But the very purposeful repetitiveness of today’s Gospel reminds us, invites us, encourages us to linger a moment. Today’s Gospel asks you – and me – if we would be willing to linger in Easter one moment longer – not just in the stories and celebrations of Easter Day, but in the very presence of the risen Christ.

This is such a timely invitation. Because this concept of lingering doesn’t always come easily for us, and at this is a time of year, lingering can be a particular challenge. In the past couple of weeks, I have heard countless people say to me, “If I can just make it until….” Sometimes this is about being hassled and worn out and tired. If I can just make it through these exams, if I can just get this project finished at work, if we can just finish painting the house, if I can just get to the end of the fiscal year. But sometimes this feeling is about being in a particularly difficult and stressful season of our lives. If I can just get my mother safely settled in a home, if I can just get this second opinion, if he can just find a job, if we can just hang on until summer…. We in the church are not exempt from this way of thinking, of course. If I can just get through Corpus Christi, if we can just make it through this current budget cycle…. If we can just make it past fill-in-the-blank, then…what? Then, we imagine, we’ll have time, and peace, then we can breathe in and linger all we want. But now? Right now we don’t have the time or space to be still and know that God is God.

Of course, we know that this is a kind of magical thinking. We know that there will almost always be something else over the horizon, some other task or tension that will run up on us all in a rush and consume as much time as anything we’re involved with now. There is a natural up and down and back and forth to these cycles, of course, but we know that the ebb quickly turns into a flow, and we’ll find ourselves once again flooded out and wishing for that still, small isle of peace that we can see just out there, if we could only get to it.

But look again at the Gospel for this week – and last week, for that matter. Look at how and when Jesus chooses to show up. He doesn’t wait until the disciples have waded through all of their fears and doubts and panic to make an appearance. No, he shows up right in the middle of the storm of their anxiety, when they’re all whipped up like a sea squall about the rumors of the resurrection. Right in the midst of that foaming tempest – wham! – Jesus appears, breathes “Peace be with you” and the waves are still. He invites the disciples to take a breath, to linger with him as he shows them his wounds, picks the bones from the flaky flesh of a freshly-broiled fish, and opens the scriptures for them page by page, like petals.

And that Jesus, who was the same Jesus who was crucified, dead, and buried, is the same Jesus who is present here in Word and Sacrament and in this people gathered together. Jesus is the same now as he was then; he steps right in the middle of your whirlwind and whispers “Peace be with you.” He invites you to take a breath, to linger with him, to take real time to sit and be still, to chew over the scriptures with him until they taste sweet as honey in your mouth, to savor the taste of his meat and drink. He invites you to linger in Easter each and every Sunday at the weekly celebration of his resurrection, to sit and to sing and to pray and to take eat and to proceed in peace. But Christ also invites you to do this every day, every moment. Right in the middle of your life – ebbing or flowing, stormy or still – he invites you to take a breath, to see, to notice, and to linger a moment with the love that is all around you.

This takes practice, of course. Even if you aren’t feeling particularly overworked or overly stressed right now, the truth is that this lingering always takes effort and attention and commitment. But don’t worry – Christ is happy to stay with you as you figure out what this lingering will look like for you. Maybe it will be silent, contemplative prayer. Maybe it will be the slow, prayerful study of scripture. Or maybe it will be taking time to really listen to what your co-worker is telling you about her child’s report card. Maybe it will be really looking at the person who sits outside the steps of this church asking for money. Maybe it will be paying attention to the earth, stopping and smelling the flowers, noticing the beauty of spring that reminds us that, in the words of Joan Chittister, “hope rages, hope rages, hope rages in this world.”

This kind of practice, this cultivation of a still heart, is what Easter Christians are asked to do every day – to linger long enough that we can open our eyes to see all of Christ’s redeeming work. How else can we possibly be a witness to the good news if we haven’t really seen it ourselves?  Of course this isn’t always easy – sometimes the waves crash against us and we feel as if we’ll never reach the shore. But these waters cannot quench the love of Christ, neither can the floods drown out his speaking, Peace, peace, peace. 

So right now, take a breath. Practice some Easter lingering.  Practice resisting the temptation to rush along to the next part of your story, to look only over the horizon at the oasis of calm that you imagine there. Practice opening the eyes of your heart. Look here. Taste this. “This flower,” writes Thomas Merton, “this light, this moment, this silence – the Lord is here. Best because the flower is itself, and the silence is itself, and I am myself.” Peace be with you. Here. Now.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

22 April 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Doubting Thomas

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

A long time ago back in Palestine land,

was the death of a man on a Cross.

And they buried the chap in the dirt and the sand,

‘neath a stone that was covered in moss.

The disciples dismayed; they were scared to their wits,

and they hid behind doors out of fear.

There they huddled together like a gaggle of twits,

not suspecting their Savior was near.

There was one of them who you’ll remember by name,

“Doubting Thomas” he’s called by us all.

He’s been branded for ever with that odd kind of fame,

That reminds us his faith was too small.

For he was not there at that magical hour

when although all the doors, they were locked,

Jesus rose from the grave, and to show them his power,

came to visit, which left them all shocked.

“Peace be with you,” he said, and he breathed on them then,

thereby sharing the great Holy Ghost.

“Give the gift of forgiveness to women and men”

said their Savior, their Lord, and their Host.

How they murmured and wondered, how their sleep was disturbed,

They were ten, minus Judas and Tom.

And their thoughts were confused, and their whole lives perturbed;

this new peace had not brought them much calm.

The would meet all together, they would talk and they’d pray,

hid away in a dark, secret room,

they went over and over details of that day,

which had ended in tears at the tomb.

And they marveled together, they wondered in awe,

how he’d risen from death, as he’d said,

and almost they couldn’t believe what they saw,

for they truly had thought he was dead.

Eventually Tom was together with them,

and the news was just too good to keep:

that God, in his wisdom, had not condemned

to death the Great Shepherd of sheep:

“We have seen the Lord Jesus!” his friends told him that day,

though to Tom this was hard to believe.

“It can’t be,” said the man in his own doubting way,

prepared only and ever to grieve.

“Let me see the deep prints where they drove the nails in,

let me thrust my own hand in his side.

Don’t you know that I loved him as though he were kin,

don’t you know that for three days I cried

out of sadness for all that we seem to have lost,

out of fear that it never was true,

out of horror to know that his life was the cost

of the lessons he taught me and you.”

“Get a grip,” said his friends, Peter and Paul,

“Get a grip,” said James and said John.

“Don’t you know that he’s come to appear to us all?

Wait and see, for he’ll be here anon.”

It was not long thereafter, when they gathered, those ten,

That the Lord came to be with his friends.

And Thomas was there, to make eleven of them,

and so this was his chance for amends.

“Peace be with you,” said Jesus as he entered inside

by the door that he never unlatched.

“Stretch out your hand, feel my hands and my side,

you’ll see that the wounds are un-patched.”

Then famously Thomas did fall to his knees,

with a gasp, and a shout to exclaim,

“My Lord and my God!  Great Jehovah!  Big Cheese!”

or something a tad less profane.

“Doubting Thomas,” said Jesus, “you’ve seen and believe,

let me say, I don’t want to be mean,

but blest is he who the truth can perceive

though my hands and my side have not seen.”

When we hear this old story the way it’s been told,

and the words that to Thomas were said,

the lesson, we think, is to hear Jesus scold

him for failing to get through his head

the good news that his Lord and his Master had ris’n

from the grave, ‘neath the dust and the stone;

that Death, though he tried, could not fashion a prison

that would keep Christ from claiming his throne.

But perhaps there’s a lesson that’s still yet more pressing

in this story for Christians to glean.

Perhaps it’s the message of Jesus’s blessing

for believers who never have seen

the prints of the nails, or the wound in his side:

the evidence of our Lord’s death.

As though proof was the best thing that he could provide,

and not the Spirit he gave with his breath.

But that Spirit has carried the message of love

to all the four corners of earth:

from Jerusalem, winging its way like a dove,

as far as both Philly and Perth…

I can tell you, I’ve seen with my very own eyes

the power of our risen Lord.

How it lifts human hearts as high as the skies,

how it vanquishes even the sword.

It’s a power that’s given from way up on high,

it’s a force that can’t be disguised;

and it signals that Jesus, the Master, is nigh,

and it’s given to all the baptized.

Which is why we bring children, with fathers and moms,

with godparents, uncles, and aunts,

after reading the lessons and singing the psalms

to the water that’s poured into fonts,

where the Spirit, who to those first ten men was given,

is shared with our own children here:

a sign and a symbol that all is forgiven,

and a promise to chase away fear

of everything evil that makes our faith falter,

with grace and with power divine,

that same grace that leads us all to the altar

to share holy Bread, holy Wine.

And when in our faith we have been through the waters

of Baptism, and of new life,

we give thanks for the gift to our sons and our daughters

that promises fin’ly the strife

is o’er, the great battle won, and the Lord,

in his glory has rose

from the dead for all people, the great human horde:

we are all of us, those he has chose.

And sometimes it may be that you start to think

that your faith is too tiny, too small.

And you’ll fear that your heart is beginning to shrink,

and you’ll doubt that God loves you at all.

You’ll think back on Thomas, and remember the scolding;

in the midst of your doubt you might dare

to fall on your knees, and right there start folding

your fingers together in prayer.

And the answer you’ll hear to your prayer that hour

won’t be one that is mean or unkind,

“Blest are you, my dear child,” says the voice full of pow’r,

“Blest in heart, and in soul, and in mind.

“Oh I know that you think that your faith is minute,

Oh I know you think it’s not enough;

But even small faith can bear you much fruit,

and I’d say you’ve got the right stuff.”

The lesson today is of blessing, not curses,

and if I had bells I would chime it;

but since all I have is these words and these verses,

the best I could do was to rhyme it.

So when you feel low, you’ve got nothing but doubt

and you’re certain that you have been messing

life up, and you think that you just want to pout,

then remember this little blessing:

Blest are you, my belovéd, my child, my friend,

blest are you, my dear jelly bean,

for you have had faith, and on God you depend,

even though with your eyes you’ve not seen.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

15 April, 2012

Saint Mark’s Church

On the occasion of the baptism of

Charles Frederick Reinhardt, Jr.

Easter Planning

They had planned it all so carefully. How could they not have planned it all so carefully – the women didn’t have anything else to do on that grim, gray Sabbath. And going over in their minds exactly what they had to do as soon as the sun went down prevented them from going over anything else in their minds. Thoughts of spices – Which to buy? How many pounds? And which oils would they need? – crowded out the sounds and the smells of the betrayal and the beatings and the blood. Thoughts of which vendors might be open when the Sabbath had passed helped to push out the memories of those Roman soldiers playing a pavement game for Jesus’ robe while Jesus himself hung painfully exposed and drowning in his own weight. Thoughts and plans gave them a sense of purpose, gave them enough rhythm to keep their broken hearts beating, kept them just busy enough that there was hardly any chance that they would remember the stillness – that horrifying stillness – just after Jesus breathed his last…and just before his mother cried out as if a sword had pierced her own soul too. They had planned so carefully. It was just what they did as women, as disciples. It was just what they did to keep the tears away.

And so when the sun set they were off, walking quickly to the market, faces wrapped in their shawls to avoid pestering questions and pity-filled glances. They bought what they needed, not even needing to haggle over the price, as the man who sold them the spices was doubly generous, charging them very little and also never, not once, meeting their eyes, or asking how they were, or saying that he was sorry. Thank God. They had no time for sorry, no time to think about how they were. They had a plan, the Marys and Salome. They had a plan and nowhere in that plan did it say, “Now the women who loved Jesus, who gave up everything to follow him, who knew the ring of his laugh and the power of his presence, now these women fall to pieces.” No, there was no time, no room for that. They had work to do.            

They didn’t sleep that night. How could they, with all of their plans whipping around in their minds. When the solid blackness outside their windows finally began to soften to gray, they arose, dressed, and, without a word, hoisted all of their purchases onto their shoulders and began to walk, step by step, to the tomb. Along the way, they worried with each other about the one part of the plan that they had not been able to work out: the stone. There was that giant disc of a stone rolled into a slot to cover the open doorway. It was mammoth, heavy enough to keep out animals…and, they feared, three slight women. But there was nothing to be done about it; they would just have to figure it out when they got there.

By the time they arrived at the tomb, the sun had just begun to kiss the tips of the grass with silver light. The place looked so different than it had on Friday afternoon. The hot, dry dust had stilled, the air felt cool and damp, and the world was entirely hushed. And the stone, the giant stumbling block of the stone, had been rolled back already, the entrance to the tomb stood open, quiet and inviting. Without a word, they set down their packs and stepped into the cool chamber, so new and clean...and so empty. No body. No blood. No plan. Just a young man, sitting in a white robe and speaking to them, “Do not be amazed; you are looking for Jesus. But he has risen. Look at the floor, you see that he is no longer here. He is already gone, gone ahead to the Galilee. Women, go, and tell his disciples what you have seen and heard here.”

They look at the young man, dazzling in his white cloth and white smile. They look at the floor, bare except for a linen shroud tossed aside into the corner, and look at each other with wide eyes. Then they look at their carefully planned purchases sitting in packs outside the door, and they realize their mistake. For all of their thinking, all of their organizing yesterday in the darkness of the Sabbath, they had forgotten something critical. They forgot that Jesus had told them that this would happen – that he would be killed, and that he would be raised on the third day. In all of their planning, they had never once imagined that he might actually have been speaking the truth. They had never planned that they might not find him here, and so they have brought entirely the wrong thing. They have brought only their sorrow when they should have brought their hope. They have brought spices to anoint the dead when they should have brought walking shoes to follow the living, to run after the risen Jesus wherever he would lead them.

I wonder if this is part of why they ran away. Maybe it was not so much because the young man scared them; after all, in this story there is no appearance like lightning, no rumble of earthquake. No, there was just this – just a man telling them that Jesus had risen, and the simple truth that they were utterly unprepared for that. They had had no idea what had been coming. Jesus had actually been raised from the dead. He was actually the Messiah, the anointed one of God. The world had actually changed. He was risen; the resurrection was true! And trembling and astonishment came upon the women, and they fled, and they said not a thing to anyone, because this truth was simply terrifying.

Now we know that the women must have said something eventually – the Gospel of Mark was written down, after all, by a community of disciples whose whole lives had changed because of the resurrection. Mark even provides us with some alternate endings to his book, sort of the director’s cut of the Gospel, where Jesus appears to the disciples and tells them how to live their faith in this post-resurrection world. But the oldest ending of Mark is this one, where the women are shaken to their core and run away. Which means that the oldest editions of Mark’s Gospel thought that this ending had something to teach us, something to show us that could help us to live out our own lives more fully and more faithfully.

Here is the question that I think this shorter ending of Mark asks: what are you and I planning for? Are we planning for a world in which Christ is palpable and present, or are we planning for a world where he feels mostly absent? Do we expect to find Christ risen and thriving and moving ahead of us, or do we imagine that actually, he might be dead? When we leave this church building tonight, do we expect to find traces of his presence everywhere, shining imprints of where he has been, blessings he has bestowed, healings he has offered? Or do we imagine that at some point the glory of this night will wear off, that when the incense has washed out of our clothes and the traces of wax have been peeled off of our fingertips, we will once again find ourselves looking at an empty world where Christ has little to do with our day-to-day living?       

You can see why it makes so much sense that the women ran away afraid. Because the idea that something real happened in that tomb, the idea that something that true, that powerful, that generous had happened was – at first, at least – a little more than they could handle, just as the idea that something that true, that real, and that generous is present in our own lives can also be more than we can handle. Sometimes it’s just easier to plan as if Christ won’t be there. You know what this feels like. We’ve all done it. We wake up, stretch, breathe in, and imagine our day as if our own power and planning can make the whole thing happen. We work hard to accept that there are just some things we have to handle on our own. We pray, of course, and invite God to abide in our busy minds, but when he doesn’t always show up at the time or in the way that we want him too, we aren’t entirely surprised. We accept; we sit in the darkness of our own lives and fill up our minds and hearts with thoughts and plans that help us to feel like we can actually be in control, that our thoughts and plans are actually the most important thing that we do.

But these holy women remind you and me not to sell ourselves – or our God – so short. There is grace to be had in this world. We reaffirm this every time we take communion, every time we welcome a new sister in Christ like we welcomed little Stephanie this evening. This is the truth – the tomb is empty, and the world is full. So let’s be ready. Let’s bring our walking shoes, bring our hopes and our expectations; let’s plan on finding Christ when we are in this place and when we leave this place, let’s look for where he might lead us, where he might have gone before us, the ways he has invited us to follow him. Let’s plan to find Christ in our lives and in our society, and then let’s be sure to bring the right stuff with us to follow him – our hearts and souls and minds, our love, our hope, our new life in him.  

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

The Great Vigil of Easter, April 7, 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia