Shannon Cate, parishioner

My younger daughter was baptized on Pentecost Sunday in 2008. It happened also to be Mother’s Day that Sunday. My mother, my father and my daughters’ godparents all came to town for the big event, as did my baby’s mother. That is to say, her first, natural, birth or biological mother — the one who carried her six weeks shy of 40, then nearly died before an emergency c-section saved her — came to town to celebrate the baptism and her own very first Mother’s Day.

We hired a hospitality student from the university to cater brunch. I wrote a special open adoption liturgy to be performed before the baptism. Grandparents and godparents brought gifts. The baby wore the christening gown my mother had made for her sister two years earlier.

It was all terribly lovely.

It was all lovely except for the unscripted piece, that is.

We were in the church when my rector turned to my partner and me and asked:

“Do you commit yourselves today to the first family of your child? Do you promise to support and uphold them in their endeavors, keeping them in your prayers and seeking their well being in all things?”

“We do,” we said.

He turned to our daughter’s mother and asked:

“Do you, commit yourself today to the adoptive family of your child? Do you promise to support and uphold them as they practice the daily work of parenting, keeping them in your prayers and seeking their well being in all things?”

“I do,” she declared firmly.

My daughter squirmed in my arms. The silk dress was slippery.

Then her mother, dry-eyed and calm only a moment before, let out a wail of the most primal pain I could have conjured in my worst nightmares.

My daughter took a nosedive towards the stone floor of the church. I barely caught her and held her tight in my left arm, while simultaneously thrusting out my right to catch her mother and hold her up, while she sobbed inconsolably.

“What the hell have I done?” I asked myself.

How could I have dragged this poor woman into this public place and asked her to say “I do” to giving her baby away to strangers? What an ass I was.

In a moment, things had quieted down, my daughter’s mother was in the arms of my own mother, the baby was baptized, presented to the congregation and the peace was passed.

I think every single member of my church hugged my daughter’s mother that morning, smiled and welcomed her to the parish.

Afterwards, at the brunch, gifts for the baby and gifts for the mothers were opened, bagels were schmeared with flavored cream cheese, and all was…lovely.

Later I pondered the whole to-do at the church. My daughter’s mother had apologized to me profusely for the “scene.” I had apologized profusely for the same. We both felt like we had messed up.

She had seen the “script” ahead of time and had said she wanted to be there. I had wanted her to feel 100% included in our family and the adoption to be not just about passing a child from one parent to others, but about becoming mothers together, sharing parenthood of a child we all loved with our whole hearts. We all had the best of intentions.

If that moment of break down in the church wasn’t exactly “lovely” here is what I have decided it was: absolutely theologically, spiritually and liturgically appropriate.

Religious-minded people often praise adoption as some kind of uncomplicated good thing. Conservatives are convinced it rescues babies from abortion. (This is highly debatable to say the very least.) Progressives often assume it rescues them from unliveably terrible lives elsewhere. But the fact is, whatever else adoption may be, it is always, always, about grief. It can also about great joy, but it is always, without exception, about grief.

I had wanted to ceremonialize the joy, the love, the moment of making a family across blood — family with child and family with mother — but what sneaked in was the other truth about adoption — the truth that it is not a joy to a mother when she cannot raise her own child. And our daughter’s mother couldn’t and can’t raise her child alone. For reasons that are not mine to share, she simply could never be a mother independent of a great deal of help — the kind of help adoption alone could offer her in her particular circumstances, in our particular society. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one whit whether she could or couldn’t do it herself. All that matters is that on a very real level — open adoption or not — she lost her baby the day she signed the adoption papers. And if she had not wailed primally about it before the baptism several months later, I am glad our family — extended to the church congregation that day — was able to give her a safe place to let that grief be heard.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about Mother’s Day. It seems like too little too late, from a culture that really despises mothers and blames them for every ill in society. It seems like a slap in the face to women who find themselves unable to be mothers, women who are the “wrong” kind of mothers, women who are unrecognized as mothers while doing the work of mothers, women who have lost children tragically.

But Mother’s Day of 2008 will always be a sacred day in my memory. It was lovely, but it was also raw and painful. And that’s motherhood, isn’t it?

Originally published on BlogHer.

Heidi Olliff, Director of Children's Formation

My name is Heidi Olliff and I am the new Director of Children’s Formation at SPR. In this role I oversee the nursery, Godly Play, Children’s Chapel, and Vacation Bible Camp. My role is to serve as a catalyst for the overall spiritual growth of children by envisioning and implementing the Christian formation program and by taking an individual interest in children and their parents.

I grew up in the same church from early childhood through high school. I developed close friendships and found it a safe place to be myself through the teen years. I grew up valuing the importance of a safe, sacred place for my spiritual journey.

Because of our early experiences with church, when Ken and I started a family it was very important for us to find a wonderful church home for our children. We found that in SPR.

Our daughters, Chloe and Clara, are growing up in SPR. They started out in the nursery and now attend Godly Play, Children’s Chapel, St. Nicholas Choir, Choristers, and VBC. They love the programs and enjoy the friendships sparked out of the common connection found at church. I am so thankful they are having this early church experience.

My hope for children to have a positive early church experience led me to volunteer with the Godly Play program 5 years ago. I wanted to help bring a program to SPR that strives to provide a safe, loving, and sacred space for our children and in turn allows them to experience, explore, and grow in their own spirituality. Something I was not expecting, in the process of growing this program for the children, is how deeply I would benefit in my own spiritual journey. It has been an incredible experience for me.

I would love to help build connections between all of the children’s programs at SPR. I plan on working with the nursery staff to bring age-appropriate Godly Play materials and a Godly Play-inspired circle time to the nursery so that our youngest SPR members can experience the wonder of Godly Play. I also plan on working with the dedicated volunteers in Children’s Chapel to help incorporate some elements of Godly Play in the children’s liturgy each week.

Vacation Bible Camp has always been a great way for the children in our parish and in the larger community to worship and play together. I look forward to working with our fantastic volunteers to create a fun and meaningful camp this summer. We will celebrate what our church does well —hospitality — through music, Godly Play stories, service, play, and feasting. This year we will connect VBC with the wonderful new garden and focus on feeding those who are hungry, as well as feeding ourselves spiritually through service. VBC will be August 6-10. I am so excited about this year’s program and know it will be a fantastic experience for our children; you can sign your children up here. If you would like to volunteer to be a part of this great program, please talk with me at church or email me at hmo@sp-r.org.

I am so lucky we have such an amazing group of dedicated volunteers and wonderful parents that I get to work with to foster a sacred space for our children. Without their commitment and passion, we would not be able to accomplish the wonderful things that we do.

I feel blessed and grateful that I get to call something a job that I feel so passionate about and enjoy so much. I look forward to many conversations with you, and please feel free to email me anytime at hmo@sp-r.org.

Lying down upon green pastures.
Resting beside still, refreshing waters.
A sure and certain path.
A sure and certain protector.
A banquet table spread out.
Fine oil luxuriously poured out over you.
Sounds quite nice, doesn’t it?

As best as I can remember, just about every funeral I’ve ever been to has included Psalm 23 in one way or another. It’s clearly a good fit for such an occasion. What better captures the Christian hope of the resurrection than the assertion that though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, God remains with us, guiding us like a shepherd through death into life?
But is our hope only directed toward the end of our lives? This psalm describes God providing very earthly pleasures: a good place to rest, clean water, good food, protection from danger. Can we hope that God provides such things not allegorically but literally? Is there some godly and true happiness to be found in the material things of this world?

I say “true” happiness because there are, of course, endless forms of false happiness promised us at every swipe of our credit cards. On the TV series Mad Men, the character Don Draper says advertising is never about selling a product, it’s about selling happiness. I can easily imagine the picturesque imagery of Psalm 23 appearing in an ad for a day spa or on a bottle of herbal shampoo. Even today, we start an Adult Formation series on Christianity and Consumerism, trying to figure out how to live a life of faith in the a world of wonton consumption.
We all know this about our world, I think. And I’m fairly confident that I don’t need to convince any of you that the happiness promised by purchasing a product is false, fleeting, and unfulfilling — to say nothing of the fact that such conspicuous consumption is becoming less possible is this new economy of tepid growth and uneven prosperity.

But the question remains, is there a true happiness to be found in the material things and pleasures of this life?

Speaking for myself, I want to have a rewarding, well-paying job. I want to have a decent place to live. I want to be able to eat good food, wear good clothes, have my membership to the Art Institute, occasionally take a vacation, and even retire in relative comfort. These are our contemporary versions of the good things Psalm 23 describes. It hardly seems wrong for any of us to want such things, to pursue them, and to ask God to provide them. In fact, as the achievement of such things as a good job and a good home becomes sadly rarer, it seems all the more important that we uphold these as the standard of living to which we should all have access.

Even more basically, Christianity in its early history made clear decisions to reject any theology that purported material things to be evil. God has created the material world to be good; God created it for the proper and just enjoyment of humanity, as depicted in the Garden of Eden.
But then what is the difference between the false happiness that the Don Drapers of the world are selling to us and the true happiness described in Psalm 23? The difference is not in the things themselves; the difference is within us.

Psalm 23 was clearly composed out of happiness, but not just happiness. It was also composed out of thanksgiving. The psalmist describes the good things of life as a way of thanking God for them, of praising a God who is so generous not only to make such things but to also lead us to them, like a shepherd.

A God who not only allows us to rest in the green pastures but who makes us lie down in them. It reminds me of one day when I had a big project due for school but I woke up very sick. I thought I should still try to go to school to turn in my project, but my mom made me lie back down and stay home to get better. Sometimes we need that extra push to take care of ourselves. Psalm 23 thanks God for this kind of insistent yet tender care, like that of a loving parent.

You see, the psalmist does not just enjoy the good things themselves, he also enjoys the relationship that comes with them. The pastures and waters and oil are pleasurable not just in itself but also because they are occasions of experiencing God as our shepherd and caregiver. Psalm 23 echoes the paradise of Eden. It is this disposition to thankfulness that is the difference between the false happiness and the true happiness that are both made available in all material things and pleasures in this life. And it is this thankfulness we aim to cultivate every week in this space. We call the meal we share here “Eucharist” which is the Greek word for “thanksgiving.” At the beginning of every Eucharistic prayer, the priest says “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God,” and we reply “It is right to give our thanks and praise.”

Without a sense of thanksgiving, the acquisition and consumption of material things is mere avarice — a compulsive drive to accumulate more and more, to keep from feeling the emptiness of these temporal and temporary pleasures. But with a sense of thanksgiving to God, the enjoyment of the material things of this life becomes sacramental. Good work, good food, good homes are occasions for us feeling the goodness and mercy of our Creator. That divine goodness comforts us — even as that mercy limits us from enjoying life too greedily and as it turns our eyes to those who have less than us.

May almighty God, who knows our needs before we ask, help us to ask only what accords with God’s will; and even grant to us those good things which we dare not, or in our blindness cannot ask. Amen.

The Rev. Peter C. Lane, Rector

Dear People of St. Paul & the Redeemer:

I write with good news of an important hire. Heidi Olliff begins this Sunday as Director of Children’s Formation. In this part-time position, Heidi will serve as a catalyst for the overall spiritual growth of children by envisioning and implementing the Christian formation program for children and by taking an individual interest in children and their parents. What an important job.

We have baptized five children this Easter season at SPR and have four more baptisms scheduled. At each and every baptism, the whole congregation stands and promises to do all in our power to support the newly baptized in their new lives in Christ. SPR has good programs to do just that. Children participate fully in liturgy, sing in the choirs, find refuge in the nursery, wonder in Godly Play, pray and sing in children’s chapel, and have fun at Vacation Bible Camp. The often tireless work of so many volunteers have kept our children’s programming strong in the absence of full staff oversight over the last couple years. I am excited about the potential now that Heidi is on board. Those nine newly baptized need a wonderful parish, a place that nurtures and develops active Christian faiths by encouraging them to engage the scriptural story and Church tradition, to participate in acts of service, to build hospitable community and share in worship, all in joyous response to God’s unconditional love. Heidi is on the job.

Heidi Olliff

She is uniquely qualified. A teacher by training, Heidi has worked at the Lab School in Chicago and taught for a few years in a Montessori school outside of Boston. She now homeschools her two young daughters. She is well-versed in our programming. Five years ago, when we started thinking about bringing Godly Play to SPR, Heidi was part of a small group that read Jerome Berryman’s book introducing it. She has participated in multiple Godly Play trainings and has been a storyteller for years. She was once in charge of the parents group, has been a leader of Vacation Bible Camp, and through her experience as a parent, has experienced SPR from the inside. To test our idea that Heidi would be perfect for this role, the Vestry and I asked veteran educator and former warden Janet Underwood to interview Heidi. She involved parents and active volunteers Sharla Stewart, Allison Clark, and Ellen Wiggins in a thoughtful interview process. In Janet’s follow up letter to me, which I shared with the Vestry, she wrote,

My recommendation is to offer Heidi the position of Director of Children’s Formation. It is clear to me, as a person who, in my years as principal of a religious school, hired many, many teachers, that Heidi is a professional educator who has a deep personal interest in children and particularly in their spiritual growth, a combination which is ideal for the position we are offering. She is articulate, knowledgeable in the area of child development and classroom management, creative in her approach to the learning process, interested in finding good resources to help parents be a part of and a support to their children’s spiritual journeys, and best of all, she is absolutely devoted to the Church of St. Paul & the Redeemer and its families. Heidi spoke openly of her happiness at finding SPR for her family, but also for herself, and of how her involvement with the Godly Play Program has made her own spiritual journey richer and deeper. If I were a principal looking for a director of religious education for children I would hire her in a heartbeat.

Not surprisingly, the Vestry unanimously approved the compensation for Heidi. I am thrilled that she joins an already talented staff that leads and supports this parish as it endeavors to mirror the radical hospitality practiced by Jesus. We’ll commission Heidi at the 9:15 and 11:15 liturgies this Sunday. Next week, check back in this space for a letter from Heidi. And please make a point of congratulating and welcoming her to a new role . As always, I welcome your calls and emails.

Sincerely,

Peter

I wish today’s reading stopped at the end of verse 25:
“But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “ We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “ Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and I put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side I will not believe.”

Thomas, one of the twelve, was, at some point in history, given the nickname “Doubting Thomas” and this is his legacy. There is a cartoon with a picture of Thomas crying “All I’m saying is we don’t call Peter ‘Denying Peter’ or ‘Ran Away Naked Mark.’ Why should I be saddled with this title?”

I don’t know about you, but I can relate to this. I find it much easier to believe in something that I can touch or see or smell. I need my experience to line up with my senses, my ability to analyze and comprehend and make sense of. I can’t believe something just because someone tells me it happened. I want proof and I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.

So why do I wish that the story ended here? Because it’s much easier. I can understand Thomas’ declaration that he won’t believe until he sees with his own eyes and touches with his own hands the risen Lord. Just hearing what the other disciples saw isn’t good enough for him. He needs to experience it in a worldly, familiar, and tangible way. He doesn’t accept on blind faith. He wants proof!

Thomas usually gets a bad rap. He shouldn’t have doubted, he knew Jesus, heard the prophecies and parables, he knew the cross, he heard first hand from Mary and the other’s that the tomb was empty and that Jesus had appeared to his friends.

I can identify with this doubt, possibly better than I can identify with anything else in the Bible. Thomas is such a real person in this story-he doubts, he struggles with trusting what other people tell him, he wants to know for sure. I think this makes his faith honest and genuine.

And yet we know that the passage continues and this is where it is easy dissociate from the story. Jesus does appear to Thomas, who digs his hand into Jesus side, feels the wounds, touches the proof. And Jesus asks him not to doubt, but to believe.

Usually the text is interpreted as rebuking Thomas-“you must see to believe? You sure don’t have much faith!” But I’m not convinced that’s the tone that Jesus used. I think that Jesus was probably softer, more understanding, and even respecting of Thomas’ confession and refusal to accept what he did not genuinely believe.

I think it also reminds us that doubt is an important element of faith and not necessarily it’s antithesis. If we never question our beliefs, if we never doubt, never examine that which we hold close, can we really call it faith? Isn’t faith defined as believing something that we cannot understand or explain or prove? How is it possible not to doubt, at least some of the time, that which we cannot directly access? Rather it is in the honest examination, the hard acknowledgement, and the painful confession of uncertainty that strengthens our faith.

If we did not doubt, we could not have faith. Thomas reminds us that to doubt is human and honest and good because it means that our faith is real. Doubt and faith go alongside, not against, each other.
Alas the story continues and Thomas’ wish is granted and he encounters the risen Christ. Thomas is finally able to say, authentically, my Lord and my God. He proclaims his belief because it has been confirmed. So what do we do with this story, especially if it’s all we have? Jesus has never appeared to me. I have no tangible experience or rational explanation to support the existence of God or the reality of the risen Christ. Where is the proof, what will assuage skepticism?

All I have are the intangible, all too rare and fleeting, moments of experiencing God that I will never be able to explain- moments of feeling loved despite the many sins I have committed, times of just looking up at the trees and thinking that there must be more to this life than what we can explain or prove, of being surrounded by the people I love and finding my heart overflowing, and of hearing a story of faith from a woman whom I mightily respect.

I also have a community who surrounds me and witnesses God’s love and grace to me. I have a book that guides and connects me to my faith’s narrative. The wisdom of our tradition, found in the Word we read, the songs we sing, at the Table where we share bread and wine, and in the prayers that we think and say, all hold power and give sustenance.
In the words of Joan Chittister and Rowan Williams:

There is simply a point in life when reason fails to satisfy our awareness of what is clearly unreasonable and clearly real at the same time — like love and self-sacrifice and trust and good. Data does not exist to explain these unexplainable things.  Then only the doubt that opens our hearts to what we cannot comprehend, only the doubt that makes us rabidly pursue the truth, only the doubt that moves us beyond complacency, only the doubt that corrects mythologies not worthy of faith can lead us to the purer air of spiritual truth.  Then we are ready to move beyond the senses into the mystical, where faith shows us those penetrating truths the eye cannot see.

In keeping with God’s promise of grace, Jesus gives us a blessing at the end of his conversation with Thomas. He acknowledges the fact that Thomas believes because he has seen but that there are many of us who won’t be able to physically stick our fingers in Jesus’ side or see the holes in his hands: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Hold faith and doubt in tension with one another because only in this way can faith be real, honest, and authentically ours.

Fun Team: Kim Hart (kimahart@att.net)
Fundraising Team: Linda Thisted (linda@socraticmedia.com)
Housing Team: Gail Williams (gwilli8787@aol.com)
Communications Team: Dan Puchalla (dap@sp-r.org)

Dear Parishioners:

We are more aware than ever of how blessed we are to serve such a faithful, nurturing, open, exciting parish. Easter was absolutely glorious. St. Paul & the Redeemer is a special place. As leaders, we see how many good things are happening and the unrealized potential that exists as we seek to live out our vision to mirror the radical hospitality practiced by Jesus. We do so in five ways:

Praising God: Holy Week liturgies were packed. Lay people write meaningful prayers every week. And the addition of Christian Clough can dramatically strengthen the offerings of our choir program, which can make Sundays richer.

Inviting Others: We had ten folks in the Adult Inquirers Class and will offer a Sunday version during Easter season. We baptized four children at the Easter vigil and have five additional baptisms coming. Our garden engenders conversation.

Connecting People: The honesty of the presenters at Adult Formation during Lenten was moving and can only lead to deeper connections between the people who were listening. The women’s group continues to be an important place of connection. Add to that another new table group, a new knitting group, and all of the group excursions that people bought at the auction and we are facilitating connection.

Nurturing Faith: We mentioned the adult formation series – standing room at every session. Our first confirmation class for youth started in early March. And Josh Daniels leads an adult class on Christianity and consumerism during Easter Season.

Serving God’s World: We are particularly excited about the possibilities of our strengthened partnerships. We are building strong relationships of solidarity with Shoesmith, St. Etienne, Haiti, and our garden project with KAMII. Mark your calendars for September 22 and 23 when the boys choir of Trinity Cathedral, Port-au-Prince will be with us.

Why are we giving a short rehearsal of all the good stuff happening here? Because at our most recent meeting the Vestry concluded that SPR is being called to consolidate our strengths, focus on our successes, and live within our means. We write to tell you of a changed plan for how we will will staff this parish to flourish.

Earlier this year, the Vestry intended to replace Ray Massenburg with another full-time Assistant Rector, who would have been responsible for children, youth, and families. After much discussion, we have decided that the best way to move faithfully and responsibly into our future is actually to hire two or three gifted part-time specialists, instead of just one. We will make sure that we are staffed so that our children’s and youth programs can thrive and so that we have a strong female priest. Not only do we believe that we will more likely fill each role with excellence and enthusiasm, we have designed this plan to allow SPR to maintain the same pledging level ($565,000) as we currently have. Hiring a full-time assistant rector would require yet another increase in giving for 2013 by at least $25,000.

We have staffed the middle and high school youth programs with a part-time position for a couple of years. That will continue.

Our current children’s programming is excellent, but needs the care of a talented staff person. We are grateful for the sometimes tireless work of the many volunteers that make us an attractive parish for children and their parents. Those volunteers deserve the care and attention of a paid person. Not only do Godly Play and Children’s Chapel need support and encouragement, planning for Vacation Bible Camp needs to start immediately. The vestry will move with all deliberate speed to fill this position.

One way of mirroring the radical hospitality of Jesus is by having a diversity of clergy on Sunday mornings. We are committed to an open search to find a part-time female priest to preach, to preside, to provide pastoral care, and to make connections with and between parishioners. This assistant priest will be the most visible hire, impacting in a very direct way the Sunday experience of everyone who walks through our doors. We need her to be exceptional and have charged a committee to find the right fit. If you have any leads, please email them to jobs@sp-r.org.

This is a great parish. We feel confident that hiring these part-time staff members will help us live faithfully into our future. Don’t hesitate to contact any of us with questions.

Sincerely,
Peter Lane
Rector
pcl@sp-r.org

Hank Underwood
Warden
hunderwood@HowardandHoward.com

Ellen Wiggins
Warden
ewiggins@sbcglobal.net

Mark 16:1-8

Nothing in this story of the empty tomb awakens confidence in the human characters.  Let’s review the whereabouts of the disciples.  The last we heard from Peter he was weeping in the courtyard after denying Jesus three times.  The last we heard from Judas he was kissing Jesus, a provocative method for betraying his leader to the authorities.  James and John?  The last we heard from them they were sleeping in the Garden while Jesus was praying for deliverance.  The male disciples scattered when their leader was struck.  Thankfully the female disciples have stayed strong and faithful.  They have not abandoned Jesus nor have they abandoned the precepts of their religion.  Even though in later Rabbinical codes preparing the dead for burial was an appropriate Sabbath activity, these women were assiduous in their obedience and therefore paused when the sun went down on Friday. But when the Sabbath ended, they immediately purchased spices with which to anoint Jesus’ dead body.  This allowed them to set out early Sunday morning to the tomb, which they found empty with the exception of a mysterious young man dressed in white and prepared with an important message. (It is like the gospels to put such important words into the mouth of an unknown, mysterious figure.) He says, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.  He has been raised; he is not here.  Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” This encounter with the divine undoes the women.  The last verse of our gospel on this Easter Sunday?  “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”  Our three seemingly strong and faithful women, the two Marys and Salome, join Peter and Judas and James and John.  Whereabouts? Unknown. Disposition?  Afraid.  It is just as Jesus predicted after the last supper, “You will all become deserters.” Nothing in this story of the empty tomb awakens confidence in the human characters

It is an unsettling picture of humanity.  Imagine what it must have been like on that first Easter Sunday for the disciples, male and female, who deserted Jesus out of fear, cowardice, sleepiness, betrayal, or shock.  Where did they sit in those empty hours?  Even if they were together, they must have been utterly alone.  This is not an image of heroic humanity, overcoming great odds to conquer nature.  Rather, this is a picture of isolation. Perhaps it is like the people in Edward Hopper’s famous 1942 painting  Nighthawks.  You’ve seen it, the one of the corner diner eerily lit in florescent light where three anonymous patrons and a waiter sit uncommunicative and remote from each other and the viewer.  The patrons in Hopper’s diner are alone.  The disciples of Jesus are scared and alone.  Are we also scared and alone?

Mark’s account of the empty tomb is incredible because while there is nothing in it to awaken confidence in humans, the story points beyond itself.  It points beyond itself by pointing us to the reliability of Jesus’ promises.  The mysterious young man dressed in white says, “There you will see him, just as he told you.”  Just as he, Jesus, told you.  Can we trust Jesus, even while others fail?  In Mark’s resurrection account “all that is left is a promise, a promise made by the one whom God raised from the dead.”  Mark’s gospel does not rely on resurrection appearances to speak of God’s faithfulness.  Rather, throughout the entire book, Jesus makes predictions that come true.  As readers, we have heard Jesus promise that he would be raised “after three days” five separate times.  Jesus predicts Judas’ betrayal and Peter’s denial, even the scattering of the disciples was predicted by Jesus.  Perhaps there is a reliable one in the story, who points beyond the story.   Ending the gospel with another prediction pushes the reader to look to those things which are yet to happen.  If this is good news, we need God to work beyond the narrative. When the mysterious man clothed in white says, “Go to Galilee, Jesus will meet you there” like every previous prediction, the reader can have confidence that this one too will be true.  The scattered disciples eventually make it North to Galilee.

What happened in the actual Galilee two thousand years ago?  We don’t know.  Mark ends with the whereabouts of the disciples unknown.  But the fact that Mark wrote his gospel at all, the existence of the wonderful stories that we read in the Acts of the Apostles, Augustine of Hippo and Julian of Norwich, Nat Turner and John Brown, this very gathering, the brass, and the flowers, and the 600 candy filled eggs awaiting our children, point to a God who was faithful beyond the narrative.  Our great hope is that we don’t rely totally on our ourselves.  Our great hope is that our futures have power not found in our past.  Our hope is that we will not be judged on how hard we pull on our bootstraps.  Our hope is that God will be faithful when we are not.  Our hope is that God is faithful beyond our narratives.  The reader of Mark is left with nothing more than a promise, a promise given by the one whom God raised from the dead.  “Meet me in Galilee.” In the Art Institute, not far from Hopper’s Nighthawk, hangs Archibald Motley’s A Night Out finished only one year later in 1943.  There are not four lonely characters in this painting, but a room full of revelers.  It depicts a club in Bronzeville during the Jazz age.  A man in a sharp blue suit orders a drink for a beautiful lady in long white socks and a green dress.  In the foreground is a woman in bright orange dancing tightly with her partner.  And the back of the painting is full of colorful dancers, some with their hands in the air.  It is a painting of energy and exuberance and community.  I think it should be sub-titled, “What happened in Galilee.”  The promise of the empty tomb is that not withstanding the reality that we will sometimes be scattered and alone, we don’t have to be full of fear but can nonetheless have lives full of meaning and dancing and joy.

The reality of Bronzeville in the 40s is that it wasn’t dancing and flirting all the time.  Life was difficult; life is difficult.  Mark’s gospel doesn’t give us a picture of heroic humanity.  It gives us a picture of a faithful God.  Many of you know that Vaclev Havel, the great Czech, died this year.  I think he really got the difference between a heroic humanity and a faithful God.  He illumines the difference in his distinction between hope and optimism.  The story of the resurrection in Mark doesn’t sell optimism, but it delivers hope. Havel said, “Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. [Hope] is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”  The mysterious young man in the tomb leaves the reader of Mark with a promise.  “Go to Galilee.  There you will see Jesus.” We don’t know what life will bring forth.  Like the Gospel of Mark, our narratives aren’t complete.  But we know that whatever our lives bring, God will be faithful to the promise.  So whatever tomorrow brings, we will be ready.  If we are to stand up, God will help us stand bravely. If we are to sit still, God will help us sit quietly. If we are to lie low, God will help us do it patiently.  And if we are to do nothing, God will help us do it gallantly.  Jesus will meet us in Galilee.  Joy, deep joy, real meaning, true hope is there.

Amen.

Sources:

Juel,Donald. The Gospel of Mark. Nashville, Abingdon Press, 1999.

The Website of the Art Institute of Chicago

The Book of Common Prayer

The cross seems foolishness.  Jesus was mocked and flogged.  The place where the cross stood was a garbage dump. Jesus was stripped of his clothes and hung between two common criminals.  The cross was an instrument of imperial torture.  The cross is violent and ugly and frightening.  Then why did the builders of San Clamente in Rome in the 12th century make a mosaic of such incredible beauty, with birds and deer and flowing water and plants?  Why, in a few minutes, when we bring in a cross, will we put two blooming flowers next to it?  There are at least two possibilities.

The first possibility is self-protection.  The people of San Clamente couldn’t handle the starkness of the cross.  We don’t want to think about its bloody brutality.  That would be like us humans, to turn away from difficulty, to mask horror.  Our stomachs are not strong enough for the reality of the cross and so we gussy it up.  In the civil war nurses or fellow soldiers would write letters home to the mothers of slain soldiers and add in bits about the deep Christian faith of the deceased and their fortitude facing death.  These letters guarded the next of kin from the starkness of a battlefield death, making it, if not pretty, than at least respectable.  If that is what the mosaic at San Clamente is doing, gussying it up, if that is what we are doing with our flowers around the cross, making it respectable, then the cross is foolishness and a stumbling block, serving only to bring out our fear and caution.

The second possibility for having plants at the cross is that the cross is a source of life.  Deer drink from the cool waters that flow out of the cross.  Birds nest in the branches rooted in the cross.  We find the possibility for rich, abundant, self-offering life in the cross.  Of course, for this possibility to be true, “God’s foolishness would have to be wiser than human wisdom” (1 Corinthians 1:25).

We should be open to that possibility.  Human wisdom is not all it is cracked up to be.  A thoughtful look at our own lives shows how self-absorbed we can be, seeking our own wills and looking for little advantages.  We are turned in on ourselves.  That distorts our relationship with other people, with creation, with God.  I am a son and have two sons and I recognize how the ingrained habit of turning inwards is passed on through the generations.  And I recognize how it has a devastating social dimension.  Think about how we scapegoat groups and people in our social lives. We so often define our group by identifying someone or something as a threat: charter schools or gun owners or immigrants or regulations or that brother-in-law or this colleague. The way the Gospel of John speaks about “the Jews” and the ways Christians have read that through the centuries is one particularly nasty example. This is what we talk about when we talk about sin.  And this is why we mourn today.  We mourn because we don’t have the ability to free ourselves from these destructive ways. Human wisdom is self-absorbed.  The cycle needs to be broken.

Jesus did not live a life of self-absorption.  Jesus lived a life of self-offering.   He lived a life soaked with the divine, as Rowan Williams has written, “a life without restriction, without rivalry or envy in its capacity for giving.”  In that life, he bridged the gaps between people and cultures and tried to make peace.  But violence was drawn out. Humanity could not handle that life.  “If anyone takes on the responsibility for making peace they take on the risk of drawing out a violent ‘no’” (Williams, 84-85).  Jesus died because of the kind of world we live in and make and collude with.  Jesus lived the kind of life possible only when united to God, a self-offering life of love that drew out of humanity a violent no.

The cross is a source of life because of the conviction that the cross “sets us free from our destructive and deceitful traps” (Williams, 88). Jesus death is a source of grace in that it gives us the opportunity to live lives united with God. As the Eucharistic prayer puts it, “Jesus was lifted high upon the cross, that he might draw the whole world to himself.”  When we are drawn into the life of God the possibility for a self-offering life opens up.  And there is great power in that.  Why did the people of San Clemente in Rome put up that beautiful mosaic with the Acanthus leaves?  Why do we put blooming flowers next to the cross?  Because the cross has the power to break the cycle of violence.  The cross is a source of life.

We glory in the cross because we are being incorporated in a mystery of self-giving love, the kind of love that can free us from our self-absorption and open to us a life of self-offering. In the foolish wisdom of God, the cross is a source of life.  Deer drink from its cool waters.  Birds nest in its abundant branches.  And we find ourselves brought into the very life of God.

Sources:

Williams, Rowan. Tokens of Trust. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007.

Underhill, Evelyn. Lent.  New York: Morehouse, Barlow, 1964.

Girard, Rene. “Are the Gospels Mythical?” First Things (April 1996).

Faust, Drew Gilpin. This Republic of Suffering. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008.

The Rev. Daniel A. Puchalla
On a chilly November night in 2008, I was standing with hundreds of thousands of fellow Chicagoans in the middle of Grant Park, full of expectation. When I had first set off for the rally that evening, the Northeastern states were already a solid win — no surprise there. But then, as I was riding the bus up Lakeshore Drive, a friend texted me that we had won all-important Ohio. When I got off the bus at the corner of Michigan and Roosevelt, the buzz was that we had also won Indiana. By the time I passed through the labyrinthine security checkpoints and joined the throngs amassed in Grant Park, the JumboTrons were flashing that CNN had declared Virginia another battleground victory for us.
The crowds were positively pulsating with anticipation as we approached 10:00, the close of the polls on the West Coast. Mere minutes after the strike of 10, CNN declared Oregon, Washington, and California for us — and before that report could even finish, CNN interrupted its own coverage to declare that Barack Obama had won the presidency.
The crowds erupted with jubilation. And I with them: I screamed and squealed at the top of my lungs with delight. I waved my hands and couldn’t stop hurling myself into the air. I grabbed the person closest to me and we embraced and danced like long-lost lovers — I don’t even remember if it was a woman or a man! But it didn’t matter. We had all won this together.
And now things were finally going to be okay.
Even on this night of exuberance, I was uneasy. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. There was a voice in the back of my mind saying, “Not so fast. Things might only get harder from here.” I don’t think I was alone that night or in the weeks to follow in fearing that those of us who supported him had pinned too many hopes onto this one politician, and the president-elect himself kept saying as much.
Was I simply being childish for being so wildly ecstatic that November night? Were those thousands in Grant Park and in cities across the U.S. and the world who danced in the streets on this night mere fools? What about the thousands of Tea Partiers who similarly celebrated two Novembers later?
I get that same hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach every Palm Sunday, every time we gather outside, shout Hosanna, sing and march and wave our palms just like the crowds in Jerusalem did thousands of years ago.
Every Palm Sunday I ask myself, Why do we celebrate like they did when we know now where this story is heading? Why do we celebrate when we know it only gets harder from here?
One possible answer is that today is an historical reenactment, where we pretend that we are those same fawning masses who will so fickly exchange our shouts of “hosanna” for shouts of “crucify him.” If so, then it seems that today is about psychologically flagellating ourselves, placing upon ourselves the same shame for Jesus’ crucifixion as those who actually cried for it to be done.
Another possible answer is that today is about correcting that historical fickleness. Perhaps we hold cheap the faith of those crowds in Jerusalem and today contrast their superficial greeting to our sincere praise of Jesus as our King? If so, then it seems that today is about condemning those crowds and congratulating ourselves on our faithfulness.
Neither explanation of Palm Sunday satisfies. But what if instead of relating to those crowds with either shame or condemnation, we related to them with understanding and even solidarity?
So let’s try to imagine that day when Jesus entered the Holy City. Jerusalem would have been bursting at the seams with all the Jewish pilgrims who had come to make their required sacrifice in the temple of their family’s paschal lamb. All these people, excited with religious fervor, had come to the city from all over the known world. On the one hand, they are united by a common faith and religious practice, sharing together this storied city of their ancestors and the dwelling place of their God.
But on the other hand, they constantly feel the piercing stare of the imperial eagle: Jerusalem, their ancestral capital, the scene of their most sacred stories, and home of their one temple, has been garrisoned by Caesar. This alien presence is splintering them, as one empire after another has done to them for centuries.
Among the splinter groups of Judaism are first the Sadducees, political and economic elites who see the Temple establishment as the only way of survival and who try to preserve it at any cost and to protect it from any threat, real or imagined, Gentile or Jewish.
Then there are the Pharisees, who see the the reading and study of Torah as the best way of survival. They are founding new kinds of assemblies, called “synagogues” in Greek, places of observing their religion outside of the temple and more accessible to those living at the stretches of the Empire.
Then there are ascetic separatists who try to escape dealings with the Romans all together and even found their own monasteries, like the community that produced the Dead Sea Scrolls.
And of course there are the Zealots who are actively working through guerrilla tactics to overthrow Roman rule. And within the Zealots an even more extreme group of Sicarii or “dagger men” who assassinate Jews collaborating with the Romans.
All of these groups and more have filled the city, on this day. Imagine the powder keg Jerusalem must have been at Passover — but you don’t have to imagine, we have seen Jerusalem like this countless times on the news.
You have this city ready to erupt with religious and political violence, and then here comes this rabbi from the sticks of Galilee, a rabbi with legendary powers of healing and with words of equally legendary power, words of hope and justice and forgiveness that have amassed thousands to him. Here he comes riding into the city on a donkey, just as the prophet Zechariah described the coming of Israel’s anointed King. …
Of course these crowds erupt with jubilation. Of course they scream and squeal and wave their hands, and of course they cut down palm branches and lay their coats in the road to greet him. And I just have to wonder if these crowds were not the Pharisees or the Sadducees, the ascetics or the zealots, but if these crowds were in fact all the people who fell in between. The people who were just trying to live lives to support their families and to be faithful to their God. A people without an ideological axe to grind but who themselves had been ground down after generations of oppression. These are a people of sorrows and acquainted with grief. And they are just looking for some sign that everything is finally going to be okay.
It was out of legitimate hope that their God would finally rescue, united, and restore them that they acted with such exuberance that day, yet how could they not also have had that hollow feeling in the pit of their stomachs, that voice at the back of their minds saying “Not so fast. It only gets harder from here”? Were any of them surprised when their exalted King next appeared to them in shackles, mocked by their Roman overlord, crowed with thrones, rejected by the chief priests, facing execution? Was it fickleness that turned the crowds against Jesus, or was it disappointment? Maybe they forsook the Son of God because they felt that God had once again forsaken them.
Palm Sunday is for us our recognition that this continues to be the state we are in: A state of unbridled expectation that “all will be made well” intermingled with the dread that “it only gets harder from here.” We are not excused from this state by virtue of our faith in Christ. On the contrary, the Paschal mystery of Christ crucified and raised again is nothing if not the intermingling of Hope and Dread as it is the intermingling of Life and Death.
Amen.