(Easter) Beyond terror, toward hope

Easter Sunday: “Show us your resurrection power and love”
Matthew 28:1-10

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These past weeks we’ve all done things we never did before,
    and never imagined doing.
Well, I’ve never preached an Easter homily
    with the world in quarantine,
    and human beings dying by the tens of thousands.

I have, however, preached into the darkness on Easter Sunday.
    Last year, I preached
        two days after the untimely death of Norah Brubaker.
    Three years ago,
        I preached resurrection two days after we bombed Afghanistan
            with what our military called “the mother of all bombs.”
    As I look back at old Easter messages,
        I notice a pattern during Holy Week—
            typhoons, wars, plane crashes, suicide bombers.
        Easter comes and goes and evil keeps rearing its ugly head,
            as if the universe is taunting,
            “Oh, so your God is all about love and life?
                Well take a look at this!”

So in light of the devastation that is COVID-19,
    what is the true and deep Gospel word of Easter,
    that will hold up in the face of all this suffering?

Surely, we’ll find that Gospel word in the Gospel reading, right?
    We heard the resurrection story according to Matthew, chap. 28.
    This is where we will find words to ease our fears,
        calm our anxiety,
        comfort us in our state of unease.

Except . . . that’s not what Matthew gives us.
The resurrection scene Matthew paints for us
    is not deep peace and comfort and reassurance.
    The main characters in the story are panic-stricken.
    They are filled with fear—intense and paralyzing.

The scene at Jesus’ tomb was not the peaceful forest on our bulletin.
    Not like any typical Easter picture.
        No sun peeking through the trees,
            or edging up over the horizon,
                painting the sky red and orange and purple.
        No angel relaxing on the tombstone.

Matthew says, while it was still mostly dark,
    “suddenly there was a great earthquake . . .
        an angel of the Lord, whose appearance was like lightning,
            came down from heaven and rolled away the stone . . .
        For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men.”
    Did you get that?
        Highly-trained armed guards were terrorized,
            and fell over in a dead faint.

    In some other Gospel versions, disciples arrive after the fact,
        and they calmly explore their surroundings,
        wondering what just happened.

    Not in Matthew.
        Here, resurrection happens after the two Marys arrive.
        What they experience is a fear-inducing, earth-shaking,
            cataclysmic eruption.
        They saw, and felt, the “violent earthquake.”
        They saw the angel remove the stone with a rumble.
        They saw the guards convulse and faint.

    The angel tries to calm them,
        “Do not be afraid;
            I know you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.
            He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.”
            Take a look, they say. God is in this disruption.
            Now, go.
            “Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee. Go meet him.”

        The angel gave the women a missional message—
            go where Jesus is going,
            do what Jesus is doing,
            be about what Jesus is about.
        This is the new order of things.
        The powers of evil and death
            have been conquered by the powers of love and life.

    After all is said and done,
        after this earth-shaking event,
        the bottom line of Matthew’s message is,
        “Find Jesus, and don’t be afraid.”
            Find Jesus, and don’t be afraid!

Then after they listen to the angel and follow directions,
    on their way to find Jesus,
    the two Marys are gifted
        with the first human encounter with the risen Jesus.
    Before they ever got to the other disciples,
        Jesus met them on the road, and repeated the same message—
            “Go where I am going, and don’t be afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid” were the first words out of the mouths
    of the angel and of Jesus.
    I guess they figured those words of caution,
        were the most appropriate thing to say at that terrifying moment:
        “Don’t be afraid!”
    From our safe distance,
        resurrection might feel purely joyful and happy.
        But for those in the middle of it,
            if it was joyful, it was a terrorizing sort of joy.

    Now, if it had only been a loved one coming home,
        then yeah, joy and delight would be the reaction.
    But this was a new reality crashing in, violently, on the old reality.
        Any life-change is difficult.
        But world-shifting change is fear-inducing . . .
            Always, I think it’s safe to say.
_____________________

    I think we all realize,
        we are now in a world-shifting time of change.
        And it is frightening.
        We are afraid of death—our own, or of masses of people.
        We are afraid of an economy in a death spiral,
            and what it might mean to our future quality of life.
        We are afraid that it might make the world more dangerous,
            and people more cruel,
            and political leaders more oppressive.

No, I am not trying to equate
    the life-affirming resurrection of Jesus
    with the death-dealing global pandemic of COVID-19.
These two realities are on opposite sides
    of the cosmic struggle between good and evil.

But this observation that both resurrection and COVID-19
    are fear-inducing events,
    reveals something important to me, on further reflection.

I should not look to Easter
    to provide merely psychological comfort and calm.
    The power of Easter
        does not lie in its ability to make things feel
        better and calmer and more palatable.
    The beauty of Easter and springtime—
        captured in the gorgeous flowers up here,
        and splashed all over creation right now,
        and spoken of so eloquently by Heidi in the children’s story—
            that beauty is a symbol of something bigger.
        It’s a reminder of the persistence of life.
        It’s a sign pointing to a larger reality.

But Easter doesn’t stop at symbol.
    Actually embracing the earth-shaking message of Easter,
        actually believing that God’s invitation to life,
        will overpower and decisively defeat
            any cheap substitute for life the world is throwing at us,
        that truth should turn our world upside-down.
    It should feel like an earthquake in a cemetery,
        that makes armed guards keel over.

    Think about it!
    Those guards were posted in the garden to protect the status quo.
        They were there to ensure that the powers that be—
            the political and religious empires—
            didn’t get knocked off their feet
                by whatever Jesus might do next.
        So they guarded the tomb.
        Just the fact that a tomb was guarded,
            ought to be a clue to how dangerous and frightening
                the Jesus agenda was to the powers.

    See, when we embrace the resurrection of Jesus,
        we embrace the great unmasking of every lesser power.
    And that is not a comforting thing.
        That is a shaking-in-your-boots kind of thing.

I get it that right now,
    most of us would be happy with normal.
    We’d be content if we could only go back to the year 1 B.C.—
        Before Coronavirus.
    But the world has changed, and we cannot go back.
        The notion that human beings are fragile
            is no longer theoretical, it’s real.
        We and all the powerful systems we create
            can be laid low by a microscopic life form
                that no one really understands.

    And we who pledge our allegiance to the Risen Lord Jesus,
        have a similar sobering reality to reckon with.
        The Gospel of Easter is also little understood,
            and can lay low all the powers and systems of this world,
            and can make them all tremble in fear.
        The big difference is
            that Resurrection Power leads to life, and not death.
        It moves us beyond terror, and toward hope.

    If today we wish to align ourselves with the God of Easter,
        with the God of persistent life,
        then be prepared to meet resistance from the powers.
        Be prepared to pay a price,
            in order to live the life God created us for.
        It might, at first, strike fear and dread into our beings.

    But the words of the angel spoken to the two Marys,
        are now, today, also being spoken to all of us
        feeling caught by the forces of death.
    “Don’t be afraid.
        Find Jesus.
        And don’t be afraid.”
_____________________

As on other Easter mornings,
    we come to the Lord’s Table to partake
        of the very elements that filled the disciples with fear—
            Jesus’ broken body and shed blood.
    But today we partake not in fear, but in hope.
        Because of Resurrection,
            we can eat and drink in hope
            that the world is being turned on its head,
            that God is making all things new.
        This we can do, even when the world is dark outside.

Be prepared now to participate with us,
    wherever you may be.
    This communion is different than most,
        but it is still communion.
        It is a coming together spiritually, as one body.
        We are partaking in a manner that cares for the body.
            We leaders here in this space,
                are partaking exactly the way you are.
            We are using our own elements,
                and partaking of them in our own personal space.
        By doing it this way on this occasion,
            we are acting in love toward the larger body.
            We are showing care for each other,
                and for our larger community and world.
            This dear friends, is not a symbol of isolation.
                This is a beautiful act being done in community.
                Thanks be to God.
        Join us, will you?
_____________________

The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed,
    took a loaf of bread,
    and when he had given thanks,
        broke it and gave it to them saying,
    “Take. Eat. This is my body broken for you.”
In the same way he took the cup after supper,
    and when he had given thanks,
        gave it to them saying,
    “Take. Drink. This is the blood of the new covenant.
        Do this in remembrance of me.”
For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup,
    you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
 
—Phil Kniss, April 12, 2020

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(Palm Sunday) Singing a hushed hosanna

Lent 6 (Palm Sunday): “Show us how to balance celebration and grief”
Matthew 21:1-11; Psalm 31:9-16

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As each day unfolds, living with COVID-19,
    we get to have some new experience or insight or loss
        or grief to wrestle with.
    We could spend all day, if we were together right now,
        swapping stories of how our particular part of the world
            has been turned upside-down,
            where the old patterns or rules or expectations
                simply don’t apply anymore,
                and we have to make it up as we go along.
    We all share that experience right now.
    Including pastors and preachers and worship planners.

One of the biggest points of conversation
    among pastors the last couple weeks
    has been, how are we going to celebrate Holy Week and Easter?
        This is the High Season of our Faith.
        It’s the pinnacle of the saving story of Jesus.
        It’s when we pull out the stops in joyful celebration,
            and affirmation of Resurrection.
        How do we do this during a global pandemic?

I have been saying, and still say,
    time is moving at a different pace right now.
    Our season of Lent will be much longer than usual.
        If Lent is a season for fasting,
            then we have all been fasting—
                voluntarily or involuntarily.
            We are all giving up something important for us,
                as an act of love for others, and love for God.
        And the giving up will continue.
            There will be more and bigger and weightier things
                that we will need to give up
                in the weeks and months to come.
        Fasting will go on, through Holy Week,
            through Easter weekend, and beyond.

So how does this reality change how we walk through Holy Week?
    One new insight for me this week,
        is that suddenly the spiritual essence of Holy Week
            is a lot easier to grasp.
    As a preacher,
        I don’t have to persuade or cajole or remind people,
            to embrace the darkness of Holy Week.
            We know it intuitively.
            We can’t avoid it.
            We are all in the deep darkness together.
        I often say to the church around this time
            that we won’t be able to fully know the joy of Easter,
            if we don’t spend time in the darkness,
                of Jesus’ passion and suffering and death.
        This year, those are unnecessary words.

    Resurrection Sunday is made for times like these.
        Yes, Easter is going to be different next Sunday.
            We are going to delay some of the exuberant aspects
                of the celebration.
                Our songs will be softer.
            We are going to fast from singing
                the Hallelujah Chorus next Sunday morning,
                    one of our beloved Easter traditions.
            We will save that one for our first Sunday back
                as a face-to-face worshiping congregation,
                when we celebrate the victory of life over death.
                I promise you we will sing it then.

        But a week from now, it will still be Easter Sunday.
            We will still marvel at the beauty of springtime blooms.
            We will still read and sing about God’s triumph over death.
            We will still celebrate communion together.
        But we will do all these things while
            being trapped together in a very dark place.

When we stop to think about it,
    our lived experience right now,
    takes us at least a little bit closer to the lived experience
        of the Jewish people living in the time of Jesus.
    The so-called “Triumphal Entry” into Jerusalem,
        by Jesus and the noisy crowd that followed him,
        was not the kind of event we often think it was.
        It was a dark time,
            when the people were feeling lost and hopeless,
            when they were up against an enemy
                that they knew could easily wipe them out.
        This was not a happy-go-lucky kind of parade,
            this was a daring, and dangerous, confrontational march.
        It was the people living in darkness,
            choosing to boldly face off against the source of darkness.
        It was more like the Bloody Sunday march in Selma, Alabama
            across the Edmund Pettus Bridge.

    And their shouts of “Hosanna, hosanna” did not necessarily mean
        what we think they meant.
        The word “hosanna” means “save us!”
            It’s not simply a shout of praise.
            It’s a cry for help.
        Yes, it can certainly have the connotation of praise.
            And it is often used with that connotation.
            That crowd of people were really shouting it in both ways!
            They were saying, “Help, we need to be rescued!
                We need to be saved from our oppressors!
                Down with the Roman Occupation!”
            And they were also praising Jesus
                as the anointed and appointed Messiah
                who was there to save them!
        They meant it both ways.
            “Help, save us!” . . . and
            “Here is the one who saves!”

    So, when we joyfully wave our palm branches,
        as many of you did in the video
            at the beginning of our service,
        we can also mean it both ways!
        “Jesus, Savior! We welcome you!
            Thank you for coming to save us.
            And we can also mean it as a yet-unfulfilled
                cry for help.”
        The meaning of the word can change,
            according to what we feel and experience at the time.

    So today, in this time of human suffering and catastrophe,
        we don’t take this procession of palms lightly.
        We do it out of a deep sense of need, and of hope.
        We cry out, with all our heart and soul and being,
            “Lord, save us! Hosanna! Save us, please!”
        And we cry out,
            “Lord, you are the One who will save us!
                You are our one and only Savior!
                You are the source of our hope!
                And you are here!
                Hosanna! Savior!”

This year on Palm Sunday,
    just as the crowds did that day in Jerusalem,
    we dare to shout “Hosanna!”
        in the face of the enemy—
            whether Rome, or COVID-19,
                or other enemies we face in our daily lives.
    We are marching in the light,
        even though it is dark all around us.
    We don’t know how long the darkness will last.
        We don’t know if our earthly, physical lives
            will even survive this darkness.
        But we will not stop crying “Hosanna!”
        We will still proclaim our hope in God’s salvation.

This is a time when the cries of Hosanna
    may in fact sound very different to our ears.
    They may not be as loud, or confident, or boisterous,
        as they do sometimes.
    They may sound more like whimpers than shouts.
        Each of us are experiencing this darkness in different ways,
            and our hosannas will be spoken
            in different tones of voice.
        In our voices, whether loud or soft,
            we may hear grief, or sadness, or anger,
                or even hope, or gratitude.
        Whatever the tone of voice, the word is the same,
            “Savior! Save us!”

Maybe we aren’t up to shouting and singing a loud hosanna this year.
    And that’s fine.
    A hushed hosanna means the same thing: “Savior! Save us!”

    In a minute, we are going to pray and speak a poem of confession,
        in which we acknowledge our hosannas
            are hushed, whispered,
            broken, betrayed, tortured,
            scourged, and crucified.
        But they are nonetheless “hosannas!”
        We are singing a “hushed hosanna” this year.

This is a poem by Roddy Hamilton called
    “Let the stones remain silent.”
    I love that phrase, let the stones remain silent.
    It’s a reference to the Gospel of Luke’s version of this story,
        when the Pharisees were worried about all the noise,
        They didn’t want the Roman authorities to crack down,
            so they told Jesus to quiet down the crowds.
        Jesus replied, “If they are silent, the stones would shout out!”
        In other words, this injustice will be addressed.
            If not by the people, by nature itself.

    So when this poem ends with the line,
        which you will all read together,
        “ . . . and let the stones remain silent,”
            you will be saying, by faith, it won’t come to that.
            We won’t be silent.
                So the stones won’t have to speak.
            We will speak aloud our hosannas,
                even if they are broken hosannas,
                even if they are in hushed tones.
            We will sing hosanna.

Now, before we speak that confessional poem together,
    hear these words of lament from the Psalmist,
        from Psalm 31:9-16.
    But I will make one change.
        I’ll change the first-person singular to first-person plural.
        Because we are all in this place of distress, together.
        This is a time of communal lament.
        Afterward we will sing together,
            “When Jesus wept, the falling tear.”
        And then, together, we will read the poem,
            “Let the stones remain silent.”

    Here are the words of the psalmist—
            9 Be gracious to us, O LORD, for we are in distress;
                our eyes waste away from grief,
                our souls and bodies also.
            10 For our lives are spent with sorrow,
                and our years with sighing;
            our strength fails because of our misery,
                and our bones waste away.
            11 We are the scorn of all our adversaries,
                a horror to our neighbors,
            an object of dread to our acquaintances;
                those who see us in the street flee from us.
            12 We have passed out of mind like those who are dead;
                we have become like broken vessels.
            13 For we hear the whispering of many—
                terror all around!—
            as they scheme together against us,
                as they plot to take our lives.
            14 But we trust in you, O LORD;
                we say, “You are our God.”
            15 Our times are in your hand;
                deliver us from the hands of our enemies and persecutors.
            16 Let your face shine upon your servants;
                save us in your steadfast love.

—Phil Kniss, April 5, 2020

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