“The Grand Finale” Easter Sermon 2017 Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: John 20:1-18 Have you ever had someone make assumptions about you because they assumed you belonged to a certain group. Maybe they made assumptions because when they looked at you they saw a teenager or a millennial; an immigrant or stoic New Englander; a straight white man or a middle-aged woman minister. Over the centuries, people have made assumptions about Mary Magdalene, the one we read of today in the gospel. Some Bible scholars have only seen a certain type of woman who met Jesus in the Bible, when they looked at Mary. Mary has been conflated with a nameless woman of the streets, who anointed Jesus feet with ointment tears and then wiped them with her hair. This woman has a particular story to tell, but it is not Mary Magdalene’s story. Classical art works have portrayed Mary in a “woman of the street” outfit, her hair and clothes disarrayed, meeting Jesus in the garden on Easter morning. But that is plain wrong. Mary was simply thought of as “one of those women in the Bible.” You know, the ones that Jesus welcomed and forgave in spite of their immoral living. In fact, Luke’s gospel tells us that she was a woman of means, a benefactor. Along with Joanna and Suzanna, Mary provided for the disciples and Jesus as they made their way around the country. Today we remember that Mary was a member of the group who traveled to Jerusalem, and stood with Jesus’ mother Mary at the foot of the cross. Mary Magdalene must have been a brave woman. And on Easter morning, we hear once more of her courage as she is the first to come to the tomb. Mary is a true disciple. And, on this first Easter morning, she is commissioned with telling the good news that Jesus lives on. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s turn to our story … There’s a thing called a “false finale” in theater, whether it is musical theater, opera, or simple dramatics. The audience is led to believe that the performance has come to an end. A false finale is usually climactic: an epic battle, or the hero drawing their last breath. As I pondered this week’s reading from John’s gospel I began to see the crucifixion as a false finale. The scene in the garden that we heard today is a surprise. Just when we think all is lost, we discover that there is more to the story. Imagine the drama of the crucifixion scene. Crowds surround the three crosses set on a hill. The women gather around the cross of Jesus. The sky turns dark, as the orchestra swells. Brass and strings sound, the timpani crescendo. Then the final words are spoken, the symbolic scenes acted out. Jesus commends his mother into the care of the one John calls “the disciple whom he loved.” Jesus cries that he is thirsty and is given sour wine on a sponge. Finally he says “It is finished”. His head falls to his chest. The curtain drops. And we, the audience, hold our breath. Is this the end? Should we applaud, or should we simply file out of the auditorium, stunned. The darkness continues just long enough to make people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Stifled sniffs and sobs are heard. Just as we are about to feel for our belongings and consider fumbling our way outside in the dark, a hint of light, suggesting dawn, is seen on stage beneath the curtain. Barely audible, a piccolo begins to play. Like the first note of the dawn chorus. In the pale light, the shadow of a woman, Mary Magdalene, moves onto the stage. The scene is a garden. This same setting was seen at the beginning of the final act. It was the evening when Jesus went to pray with the disciples and was betrayed by a kiss. But this time it is morning. We can make out the entrance to a cave, a large stone to one side. Mary turns and hurriedly exits the stage, exclaiming in horror “they have taken away the Lord!” Moments late, bringing a little comic relief, the disciple-Jesus-loved and his sidekick, Peter, run onto stage, as if in a race. They perform an exaggerated mime. The first disciple stops, bending to catch his breath and peers into the tomb. Peter, ever impetuous, catches up and crouches to go inside. He wriggles out, and points inside to the other man. Then he shrugs and raise his hands, gesturing: where is the body of Jesus? Then the two male disciples hurry back off stage, looking over their shoulders as if fearful of being followed. Mary arrives back and stands weeping outside the entrance to the cave. As her sobs subside and she quiets a little, she peers again into the tomb. A bright light is beginning to radiate from inside. Other-worldly voices come from inside the cave, “woman, why are you weeping?” Mary puts her hand to her heart and calls inside, “they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” She is bending, looking into the cave, but we the audience, see a cloaked figure quietly enter the stage and stand to one side. Mary turns toward this man, who gently asks again, “woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?” Clearly Mary doesn’t recognize this man through her tears. He is disguised in a way that only ever works in theater. “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” “Mary!” Finally the tension breaks, finally he calls her by name, finally she recognizes him as Jesus. “Rabbouni!” she cries. They embrace, but he cautions her that he will not stay. Having passed through the grave, he tells her he must return to his Father in Heaven. Now he gives Mary a responsibility that could not be articulated before. She is to tell the other disciples that she has seen her Lord, Jesus. Instead of being robbed from his own grave, Jesus is out and about, preparing the disciples for the next stage of their life following him. If this was really a musical, they’d now sing a reprise of an duet first performed in the first act. You get the picture, the scene is tender and intimate, a far cry from the harrowing crucifixion. But it is not an “all’s well that ends well” kind of finale. In fact it is the scene that opens the door for a sequel. Because the real ending to this story is that there is no ending. Mary is tasked with delivering the good news to the other disciples, news that has been passed down in an unbroken line these past 2,000 years. “I have seen the Lord!” And so, for today, I will not dwell on the fact that Mary Magdalene was all but written out of the story. There is now more mention of her, not in the remainder of the gospel or in the part of the Bible about the early church. But we know she was an apostle in her own right, a leader in the early church. In fact she even has her own gospel. It just wasn’t included in the Bible we have today. But, today because it is Easter, we remember that she was called by name by Jesus on that morning in the garden. For Jesus, she was not just one of those women in the Bible, she was Mary. This morning Jesus doesn’t call teenagers or millenials, immigrants or stoic New Englanders, straight white men or middles aged women ministers. Jesus calls: Rhea, Mary, Jim, Lisa, Jack, Matt, Kim, Leo … You have been called by name … because this isn’t the grand finale. It is just the beginning. You and I have been called to go and tell the news: Here, this Easter at Wollaston Congregational Church, we have seen Jesus. Let all the people say “Amen”
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"Who is This?" Preached on Palm Sunday, April 9th, 2017 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Matthew 21:1-11 I love Palm Sunday, I always have. As a child I loved it for what it was then. In the church I attended, there was a special afternoon service in which the children acted out the Palm Sunday procession. I’d imagine Jesus out in front riding the donkey. We’d sing hosanna as we followed the priest in his red and golden royal vestments, carrying the golden, jeweled cross high in the air. I even remember a verse from a favorite children’s hymn of the time: Into the city I’d follow the children’s band, Waving a branch of the palm tree high in my hand; One of His heralds, yes, I would sing Loudest hosannas, “Jesus is King!” Yes, you’ve got it … I swallowed it all hook, line and sinker, as we proclaimed “Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem.” But, of course, it was an illusion. Members of the procession that accompanied Jesus on his journey Jerusalem that first day of the Passover festival, were not dressed in royal vestments. They did not command military might. They were a disarmed group. They had no swords, no armor. They were not led by their leader on a stallion war horse, but by Jesus a humble female donkey. If they were looking for it, the residents of Jerusalem could find military might in a different parade. The Roman governor Pontius Pilate, had been summoned to return from his weekend place, in the glittering coastal city of Caesarea Maritima, to the West. His reason for coming back to Jerusalem that same day was to maintain order. He needed to keep a lid on the Jewish high jinx of Passover. At the time of Jesus every Jew was required to return to Jerusalem to eat the Passover meal. You can imagine the chaos. Some 200,000 pilgrims, descending on the city usually a fifth of the size. Vendors, with their food, drink and trinkets cram the narrow streets. People are in high spirits. The place is packed to bursting with devout Jews. This week they will retell the story of liberation from slavery and oppression. To this day, the Jewish celebration of Passover, or Pesach, lifts up the event of the Exodus. This is the story of the emancipation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, an oppressive empire of an earlier time. During this festival week the Roman occupying forces are armed to the hilt. They have taken the stubbornly monotheistic Jewish people captive in their own land. In a show of power and authority, Governor Pontius Pilate enters the city on a war horse, leading a column of imperial cavalry and soldiers. Meanwhile to the East, descending from the mount of the Olives, Jesus rides into town on an awkward mother donkey. She veers this way and that while her little foal comes trotting alongside, struggling to keep up, braying pitifully for his milk. The ragtag group, that Matthew calls “the crowd”, have been following him these past few weeks. Some have come all the way from Galilee, 75 miles. Others have been picked up along the way, including the surroundings of Jerusalem. These people are peasants who have been forced from their small parcels of land by the occupier. Many survive by means of day labor, in the city, slaving on Rome’s massive projects. Others have resorted to begging. They have already been humiliated. Their self-worth and dignity is at an all time low. They desperately need relief from these conditions. They have grown to love Jesus and they place their hope for liberation in him. The residents of Jerusalem who happen to live along the route taken by Jesus scratch their heads at the sight and ask “Who is this?” The supporters proudly claim “This is the prophet, Jesus, from Nazareth in Galilee.” But there is a problem for Jesus. Even as the crowds live in fear and trembling of the occupying forces, their hopes depend the same kind of power and strength. They do not know anything else. They are nostalgic for the kingdom of Israel ruled by David a thousand years ago. This is what the coming of “the Lord” means to them. They want a king who will overthrow the Roman government. They do not understand what Jesus is about. They are about to the tragically disappointed. Over the past few weeks, members of our Lenten book group, here at Wollaston Congregational Church, studied the book “Christ Actually” by James Carroll. In the Introduction to that book, we read about the German pastor and theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. We learned in that in 1945 while Bonhoeffer was confined to a prison cell by the Nazis, for his part in a plot to assassinate Hitler, he wrote to a friend, saying: “What keeps gnawing at me is the question … who is Christ actually for us today?” [1] The experiment of cultural Christianity in Europe had failed. The Jewish holocaust of the 20th century made this clear. In spite of being the dominant religion throughout Europe during the Nazi era, the Church had failed to prevent the genocide of 6 million European Jews. Christian leaders, both Catholic and Protestant, had been either complicit, silent or impotent as this atrocity took place. We might say that Bonhoeffer was tragically disappointed in the Christian religion. But he wasn’t disappointed in Jesus. Instead, he looked forward to a time of a religion-less Christianity. This kind of Christianity would involve following or imitating Jesus, rather than worshiping him. According to Bonhoeffer this would not “create constitutions by decrees, [but would bring] human beings into relationship with one another.” [2] Here at Wollaston Congregational Church, we may look back on our heyday when we almost made 1,000 members. We may remember having significant influence in the community. The church was the place to make connections, and build a professional network. I think that the Church in America at that time had certain parallels with the heyday of the Church in Europe. The culture and the church were bound tightly together, it was difficult to distinguish faith in God from faith in country. This still applies in many churches in the United States. But, now, here at Wollaston Congregational Church we have been disarmed. These days we don’t have much political clout. We don’t have the movers and shakers of Quincy among our membership. We don’t have support from powerful organizations with deep pockets. Here as in this church, what you see is what you get. But we should remember we look more like the original palm parade than the church of the past. It is as though the Christian faith, in this church and others, has been gently simmering on the stove. The distractions and temptations to power and influence have been gradually evaporating away. Here in this church we find people of various walks of life. We belong to a number of different generations. We do not all have the same country of origin, we do not all belong to the same race. We do not all have the same type of family configuration. Some have been coming to this church their whole lives. There are others who came along more recently, perhaps from other faith traditions. And there are those for whom church is brand new. But, we have something in common. We know our need. Through this past Lent we have been exploring that need. We learned that Jesus is the living water. And we drank deeply with a thirst to be known by name, to be loved and to belong, to find meaning for our lives in the Christian story. We had a thirst for reconciliation and forgiveness, and for the restoration to community of all God’s children. We learned that Jesus is the light of the world. And we began to embrace our journey toward the light of inclusion. We demonstrated our desire to set aside anxiety about right belief and sin, so that we can open ourselves to a clearer vision of who Jesus is. And with hope in the resurrection and what it might mean for our lives, we have joined this humble procession toward Jerusalem. With fear and trembling, we know we will desert Jesus at his darkest hour. Even so, we pray that God will give us the strength to witness to the coming events of this week. And so, with these thoughts, I return to those Palm Sunday parades of my early life. My one disappointment concerned the distribution of the palms. We did not receive these lovely long palm leaves that could be waved in the breeze along with the singing of hosannas. Instead we were given pre-fabricated palm crosses. I tried unfolding mine, but it didn’t make a whole palm leaf. It was cut short and collapsed along the folds. I think that makes a metaphor for growing from a childhood view of Palm Sunday to an adult version of the event. This week we journey with the followers of Jesus from the waving of the palms on Sunday, to his crucifixion on the cross on Friday. By Friday, the palms, waved in the hopes of a speedy rescue from the Roman oppressor have fallen to the ground. They have been bruised and trodden down. Perhaps they are swept up, along with other Passover festival detritus, into trash heaps to be burned. God is not coming speedily to rescue us from the pain and oppression of this world. Instead, in the person of Jesus, God walks ahead of us, toward the cross, bruised and beaten down. If there is hatred to be accepted, if there is violence coming, Jesus will take it upon himself. The people will look on and ask “who is this?” And some will reply, “this is Jesus of Nazareth, he is a prophet.” May all the people say, Amen. [1] James Carroll, Christ Actually: The Son of God for the Secular Age, (Penguin Group, New York, 2014), 3-4 [2] Ibid, 248 What is the Meaning of This? Preached on April 2nd, 2017 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: John 11:1-45 One morning, a few days after my husband’s father died, our daughter Chloe, who was about four at the time, snuggled in bed with me. She had experienced quite a few deaths in her short life: both of our cats, her Grandma, my husband’s mom, less than two years before, and now her “grand-dad”. We had recently visited the Egyptian mummy exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science. “I don’t like people dying,” Chloe said, “I think we should do like the Egyptians, and wrap them up in bandages and pretend that they are still alive.” It was cute, but Chloe was expressing something many of us feel, when someone dies. We just don’t want to accept it. We’d rather pretend they are still alive, than be truthful about the fact that they are gone. Because we simply can’t make any sense of the loss. We cannot grasp it’s meaning. We began the season of Lent, a few weeks ago, by having ashes imposed on our foreheads as we were reminded that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. We are mortal. This is the harsh reality: that we all must die. Now we are almost at the end of Lent with Palm Sunday coming next week, and Good Friday and Easter soon after. Today we are confronted with a story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. It doesn’t make sense. Weren’t we supposed to accept death as a natural and normal part of life? Why, does the gospel want to turn that truth upside down all of a sudden? But let’s turn to the story and see what it has to say for us today. Jesus receives news from his dear friends, Mary and Martha, that their brother is dying. But in spite of his healing powers, he does not rush over to their place. Instead he waits for two days. Finally he decides to make the trip, saying to the disciples “let’s go to Judea again.” This is not an exciting prospect for them. The Judean religious authorities have already tried to stone Jesus, because of his provocative claims. If they return to the territory, won’t they provoke the authorities even more? When the group gets close Bethany, two short miles from Jerusalem, they can hear the weeping and lamenting of mourners. The realization that they are too late hits them like a blow to the chest. Lazarus is already dead. Martha rushes to greet them. And she has strong words for Jesus: “if you had been here my brother would not have died.” Jesus’ reassurances about Lazarus rising again don’t comfort her. She trusts in the resurrection of the dead. Just as many of us believe our loved ones are in heaven today. But does that ease the grief that we feel? Of course not. Jesus takes this opportunity to make his seventh and ultimate proclamation about who he is: “I am the resurrection and the life … those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.” In spite of herself, Martha proclaims her belief and faith in Jesus. But, now Jesus calls for Mary to come out and meet him too. And it is Mary’s reaction that undoes him. This is Jesus at his most human. Mary accuses him, like Martha, saying again that if he had been there sooner her brother would not have died. This time Jesus is deeply moved by Mary’s grief, and he begins to weep too. Have you noticed that, when there is a loss, you will hold it together for some people, and then someone or something will just undo you and you will break down? This happens to Jesus too. We hear that Jesus was “greatly disturbed” as he came to the tomb. In today’s language we might say “he was a mess.” And so, go ahead, give yourself permission, next time you are grieving, to be a mess. Jesus did it too. In the story, this is the end of Jesus reacting in a normal human way. We have seen his love for Lazarus and the sisters. We have seen his grief. Now it is time to see the sign that John is giving to us in the gospel Jesus moves into command mode. “Take away the stone,” he insists to the mourners. They object saying that the body will already be decomposed. “Lazarus, come out!” He commands in a loud voice, to which Lazarus, trembling and disturbed, as if from a dream, fumbles his way out of the tomb. His face and body are wrapped in grave cloths. The people have to unwrap him. The story does not end so well for Lazarus. He will have to face death again. He does not live forever. And because of the publicity around his “resurrection” he becomes a target of the anger of the religious authorities. Perhaps he would have preferred to remain in the peace “on the other side.” I can’t talk about the certainty of death and the assurance of resurrection, without thinking about my first year as a student pastor. A few years back, I was going to serve as an intern in a UCC church. But, right before I came on board the pastor of the church, who had once been so full of life and spirit, was cut down by cancer. Not only was she beloved of the congregation, she was beloved of the small youth group. Rev. Jean’s absence from the church was most keenly felt by this group. There was no settled pastor for me to report to, but the interim pastor invited me to go ahead with the internship anyway. My responsibilities would include pastoral leadership for the youth group, previously led by Rev. Jean. And so I began. The group was despondent. Their beloved pastor was gone: the one they trusted to teach them, laugh with them, and guide them through the minefield of their teenage years. They felt betrayed by God and by those who had taught them their childhood faith. Some of them had simply left. A decimated little group remained, disappointed in this new “student pastor.” Their attitude bounced between normal teen silliness and despondency. They communicated their worries over Rev. Jean, and other events in their lives, via prayer requests written on little slips of paper. They couldn’t bring themselves to talk out loud about it with me. Each week I tried to find activities that appealed to them. Did they like to sing? No! Did they like arts or crafts? Well, sort of. One week, a more forward girl said she’d like the group to do something for Rev. Jean. The congregation had organized a sign up list for providing dinners or Jean and her family. How about cooking a meal during youth group? Yes! Rev. Jean had vanished from church life when she announced her diagnosis the previous Easter Sunday. She was now going through tests and treatments and resting at home. The congregation was asked not to visit, in order to give her the time and space she needed with her family. One church member delivered the meal that were cooked, running interference. But by Thanksgiving time I figured she might be ready for a visit from the youth group, and so I reached out. Yes, she would love for them to visit. We made plans to cook dinner and bring it over to Jean’s house at the time of a regular youth group meeting. When we walked into the house, the youth buzzed through to the kitchen with the food. I stopped to talk with Jean who was sitting in the living room in her recliner chair. She told me she planned to allow the kids to ask her any questions they wanted. “I’m going to talk to them about dying,” she said. Once everyone was fed, the youth gathered around Jean’s chair, like the disciples at Jesus’ feet. I sat behind, watching and listening.Their questions were a little shy at first. “How are you feeling?” “Do you miss the church?” After a while she named the elephant in the room, “No one has said it, but expect you want to ask if I am going to die.” A few kids nodded yes. “Well, I am going to die,” she said, “But I don’t know when. Maybe in days, maybe in months, I hope not for years.” You could feel the kids’ relief. It was out there. The conversation opened up in an amazing way. What a gift to these students! This is how to talk about dying, how to confront the things we fear the most. To be real and talk about them. Now, here at Wollaston Congregational Church, our dear Sandy died this past week. Many of us were shocked. Her illness came suddenly and progressed rapidly. Sandy had been a member of this church for the past 50 years. I imagine that she always sat in that pew on my right, your left, about half way back. I imagine she always had those twinkling eyes, and delightful smile. It will take quite a while for us to get used to her not being there. But, if you’ve been around church for a while, or you’ve experienced loss in your life before, you’ll know there is no use in pretending. We’ll have a funeral service. We’ll sing the songs. We will proclaim that Jesus is the resurrection and the life. But we won’t be able to pretend we won’t miss Sandy. We’ll do better to weep and be a mess. We’ll remember that Jesus raised Lazarus, not because he was pretending. He raised Lazarus as a sign, a pre-emptive hint. Because Easter is still two weeks away and we need to hear the message of life and resurrection right now. Death will not overcome us. And we will know it on Easter morning. Amen |
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