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lenten journal: listen for your name

By the time most of you read this it will be Easter, so here is my Easter sermon, which looks at Jesus’ encounter with Mary in the garden outside of the tomb where he had been buried. Happy Easter!

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Years ago, Ginger and I were in Athens, Greece on Orthodox Easter. As we were checking into the hotel, the desk person said, “Christos anesti!” When w didn’t answer, he said, “When I say, ‘Christos anesti,’ you say, ‘Alethos anesti.’ I’m saying, ‘Christ is risen,’ and you’re saying, ‘He really did it!”

His translation—and his enthusiasm—have stayed with us ever since. His exuberance was contagious and is representative of the way we celebrate Easter regardless of location or language. Christ is risen. That’s the big news—the good news; even so, the story is a lot to take in, isn’t it?

Not just the empty tomb, the whole thing: Jesus’ life and death and resurrection. In between then and now, the story has picked up all kinds of interpretations, like a snowball rolling down the slope of history, making us feel, sometimes, as though how we celebrate Easter is a test of faith, like there’s one way to do it or we’re wrong. We sing triumphant hymns and proclaim that Christ is risen. The confidence is inspiring, and not necessarily universal.

If you are here this morning and, like Mary, aren’t sure what to do with the empty tomb, you are in good company. We have talked before about trust being at the heart of faith, rather than belief—that we are not united by our doctrine but by our commitment to trust God and one another as we do the best we can to live out Christ’s teachings. What the gospel writers offer us is not an explanation, nor is it a doctrinal statement. They didn’t know how to comprehend it; we still don’t. How can resurrection be explained?

Theologian Richard Lischer wrote,

If the resurrection were meant to be a historically verifiable occurrence, God wouldn’t have performed it in the dark without eyewitnesses. . . . Not a single canonical Gospel tells us how it happened. We don’t know if it was a typically warm Palestinian morning or unseasonably cool. We don’t know if the earth shuddered when he arose or if it was preternaturally still. We don’t know what he looked like when he was no longer dead, whether he burst the tomb in glory or came out like Lazarus, slowly unwrapping his shroud and squinting with wonder against the dawn.

The gospel writers don’t go into statements of cosmic significance, and the stories they tell are not the same from gospel to gospel, but they each offer accounts of the impact of Jesus’ presence after his death. They tell small stories about Peter on the beach, about Thomas in the upper room, and about those on the Emmaus Road—all of which we will look at in the weeks to come—and about Mary Magdalene in the graveyard, whom we consider today.

Mary gets a lot of exercise in John’s account. We don’t know how far the cemetery was from where she was staying, but she walked there before daylight to mourn—to take care of the body. When she got there, the tomb was open and empty, so she ran back to where the others were and woke them up with her news. Then they all ran back again. The two men with her went inside the tomb, saw the grave clothes folded, and then went back home.

Mary looked in after they left and saw angels who asked why she was crying.

“They took my Lord and I don’t know where they put him,” she said.

The angels didn’t answer, and when she turned away from them, she saw a person she assumed to be the caretaker—the gardener—and she repeated her answer when he asked her the same thing. Her grief at his death was compounded by what she thought was a robbery or some other kind of deception. She couldn’t make sense of the circumstances, so she said, basically, “Just tell me what happened,” hoping, perhaps, that an explanation would bring some sort of comfort.

Instead, Jesus called her name—“Mary”—and she recognized him. Then, once again, she ran to tell the others what had happened.

Over the millennia since that encounter in the graveyard, Easter has become a loud and boisterous celebration in most cases, but it started small. We don’t have any accounts of Jesus preaching on the hillside after his resurrection, or healing, or anything other than a handful of personal encounters, and in every one of them those affected went looking for others to tell. They thought his death was the end of the story and it was not.

One of the ways we can talk about life is to say we live in a graveyard. We all know we are going to die. We are surrounded by the markers of those who have gone before us, of those whom we love who are not here. Death is not something other than life; it is part of it and has been from the very beginning. The promise of the resurrection is not that we won’t die. Our days here are numbered. Resurrection offers us a glimpse of another dimension beyond what we can explain. In Celtic spirituality, they talk about thin places where the barrier between what we comprehend and what we cannot opens up so that we can encounter a dimension beyond this life. In cosmology, they talk about how everything in the universe is made of the same energy—the same spirit, if you will—that connects in ways we cannot comprehend. We know from quantum physics that time and space are not as set as they seem.

Every day of our lives we are a part of things we can’t fully comprehend, and death is one of those.

When Ginger pastored in Marshfield, Massachusetts, the church had a tradition of an Easter Egg Hunt after worship that took place in the cemetery adjacent to the building. The youth group would hide the eggs among the tombstones and the kids, decorated as brightly as the plastic eggs, filled the graveyard with life as they looked for candy. I still have an image in my mind’s eye of one little girl named Gabby sitting on top of a headstone, stuffing her face with chocolate as fast as she could before her parents caught up with her.

If you need a viable metaphor for resurrection, that’s pretty good. To say we live in a graveyard is not to say life is hopeless. Life is full of joy and beauty and surprise that all ride alongside of grief and pain and sorrow. We are connected to it all. We belong here. God breathed us into being and put us here together for these beautiful and difficult days. We do not have to earn the right to be noticed by God. We do not have to be good enough to belong. All we have to do is listen for our names.

The old spiritual “His Eye is on the Sparrow” speaks to the trust that lies at the heart of faith as it leans into Jesus’ words that God knows when every sparrow falls. Jesus didn’t say anything about God catching every little bird, but he made it clear that the sparrows didn’t go unnoticed. God knew their names.

Why do I feel discouraged? Why do the shadows come?
Why does my heart feel lonesome and long for heaven and home?
When Jesus is my portion my constant friend is he
His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me

I sing because I’m happy I sing because I’m free
His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me

We have made a joyful noise this morning and filled the sanctuary with festive flowers as we proclaimed that Jesus really did it. Hear also what is underneath the alleluias: listen for Love to call your name. Amen.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: cross purposes

cross purposes

growing up they said
nothing but the blood
as though violence was
some kind of necessity
a cosmic payoff in a world
where blame and shame
are primary currency

we’ve lived enough
history to know that
violence isn’t redemptive
we’ve built whole worlds
based on bloodshed
we’ve organized Jesus’
execution into stations
ordered his last words
to read like a script and
still the death penalty
has never made sense

I know resurrection
requires death to work
but it does not require
violence or a scapegoat
imagine if Jesus had
lived a long life and died
surrounded by loved ones
and still rolled away the
stone a few days later
wouldn’t it still be Easter?

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: tradition

I was rummaging around in The Hedgehog Review–mostly because I love hedgehogs and it’s called The Hedgehog Review–and came across an article titled “The Living Faith of the Dead,” which was a book review and had nothing to do with hedgehogs. The site, by the way, is based at the University of Virginia and hosts an academic journal by the same name. (I’d love to know the story behind that.) The title of the article came was taken from a book by theologian Jaroslav Pelikan, “Tradition is the living faith of the dead, traditionalism is the dead faith of the living,”

Tradition, of course, is larger than religion, but when it comes to “the way we do things,” religious institutions large and small can get dug in emotionally, politically, and theologically on everything from communion to coffee hour. The word means “handing down” or “handing over.” The image that comes to my mind with that definition is passing tradition along like we pass favorite family recipes, but that’s not always how it works.

A sermon illustration I heard from my dad when I was young has stuck with me. (It is a well-traveled story, so I am sure many of you know a version of it, too.) A newly-married couple were preparing one of their first meals. They didn’t have much money, but they had splurged on a roast. The husband pulled out the roasting pan and then picked up the big knife to chop off about two inches of one side of the roast. The wife stopped him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“This is how my mom did it,” he answered. That was not a good enough explanation for throwing away good beef, so they called his mother to ask why. She said it was how her mother had done, so they called Grandma with the same question.

“My roasting pan was too small.”

Much is lost when we aren’t attentive to the things we hand down. Good questions should go along with the exchange. In that spirit, I share what I learned today about the etymology of the word, tradition.

from Latin traditionem (nominative traditio) “a delivering up, surrender, a handing down, a giving up,” noun of action from past-participle stem of tradere “deliver, hand over,” from trans- “over” + dare “to give” (from PIE root *do- “to give”). The word is a doublet of treason.

When I looked up the word, treason I found this.

from Latin traditionem (nominative traditio) “delivery, surrender, a handing down, a giving up,” noun of action from past-participle stem of tradere “deliver, hand over,” from trans- “over” + dare “to give” (from PIE root *do- “to give”). A doublet of tradition.

I’m still thinking about that shared genealogy, as well as the connection between handing down and giving up. It seems to me we can find more than one example of things handed down that turned from blessing to betrayal, particularly (again) when we look at religious institutions, but my point tonight is not about those institutions (though I could write that post) as much as how crucial our questions are to how we carry on what has been handed down, and also when, perhaps, we need to give up.

Holy Week and Passover are both filled with traditions. I know the former much better than the latter. In the wake of our past and persistent pandemic, most of our traditions connected to worship were difficult to deliver. Across various denominations, I read of people struggling with how to share Communion. Did it count if all you had at home were Ritz Crackers and a Coke? Did an ordained person have to bless the elements and then hand them out somehow?

Different denominations, even congregations, answered those questions in different ways. At the heart of the struggle was a question I am not sure we always answered well: What is the heart of what we are handing down?

That question is alive, again, for me this year. We have The Things We Do Every Year, which are not automatically stale or ineffective, but it the heart of what we are handing down in the method or the meaning–or a bit of both. When the tradition is tied to method, we often hang onto it out of fear that trying something new might not work. But that definition reduces tradition to the technicalities of how we do things–we’re back to talking about roasting pans.

The real meat is in Jesus’ words: “I give you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, so you also must love each other. This is how everyone will know that you are my disciples, when you love each other.”

Love each other just as I have loved you.

Each other means everybody. EVERYBODY. What has been handed down to us is not about protecting doctrine or perpetuating the Church, it is about love that is not confined or condemning. Like Paul said, “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Forget how big the pan is. Invite everyone to dinner.

Peace,
Milton

 

 

lenten journal: the edge

the edge

I feel like I have
walked along the
edge of despair today
not so much a cliff
as a dimension

you’ve seen it on tv
when they move
between one world
and another somehow
I sound crazy but

between remembering
Martin and visiting
a nursing home and
learning about Cyclone
Freddy left me sad

and angry I think
I was already angry
slipping into despair
wasn’t much of a reach
instead we walked

and talked to the
couple in their new
salad food truck
first day on the green
hope on four wheels

we made it home
along with the anger
and the edge of despair
but they are not the
only things on the menu

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: practice

Since the NCAA Men’s Final started so late, I had time to participate in something I love that I have not been able to do for the past three years, which is to go to choir practice with the Shoreline Soul Gospel Choir. Angela Clemmons, the founder and director of the choir, is someone who has become a friend in our time here in Connecticut. She is a brilliant musician in her own right, having sung with Aretha Franklin, Steely Dan, Justin Timberlake, and Elton John, to name a few.

To say she directs the choir is an understatement. She creates a miracle. There are no auditions; anyone can sign up. We have no sheet music. She gives us lyric sheets and sends us mp3 files with our parts emphasized so we can learn them by ear. Then we gather for four or five Monday nights to practice and in that time she transforms a roomful of (mostly) white people in suburban Connecticut into a pretty good gospel choir. We even clap on two and four. Well, most of us.

I was invited to join the choir soon after we moved to Guilford by one of our church members and have sung with them five or six times over the years. Tonight was the first rehearsal in over three years because of the pandemic. Over one hundred and fifty people signed up to sing–twice as much as past choirs. When Angela sent the dates out, I realized that I will be out of town for the concert in June, but I signed up anyway because I wanted to practice, even if I wasn’t going to perform for an audience.

Whether it’s a choir in a concert hall or college athletes running from end to end of a basketball court, practice is crucial. We all know that. The amazing passing and shooting we have seen throughout both the men’s and women’s tournaments are testament to many hours spent practicing when no one was in the stands. But we also use the word in a way that has nothing to do with performance–spiritual practice, for instance. It, too, requires repetition and commitment, but it does not necessarily involve performance in the traditional sense.

My first restaurant job was in a small place that served breakfast (he said, telling a story he has told many times). I asked the chef to teach me how to flip the eggs in the pan. He showed me, but then he got a stack of pans and pulled out a flat of thirty eggs and said, “The only way you will learn how to do this is to practice. By the time you get to the end of the flat, you’ll figure it out.”

He was right. Somewhere in the low twenties, I had practiced enough that the flip of my wrist did the trick, over and over.

I had nothing at stake at choir practice tonight. I don’t mean it didn’t matter to me, but I can’t remember another time that I went to a rehearsal knowing I would not be a part of the performance. The choir matters a great deal to me. I love singing gospel music. I just love singing. And over the years I have noticed being a part of Shoreline Soul has given me a healthier voice. The tenor parts in gospel songs are high. I have to pay attention to my throat and work on using my falsetto and my head voice, rather than straining to reach the notes. I leave rehearsal feeling centered and relaxed, as well as invigorated by the harmony we make together.

I went to practice for the sake of practicing, for the sake of learning my part so I could share in the spiritual connectedness of singing together. The concerts are really fun, but practice is the real gift, even when I know that’s all there is to it.

It’s not always about results or performance. Practice is where we learn and grow, where we make mistakes and try again, where we look beyond ourselves and connect to something larger. For me, tonight, that was singing for the sake of singing.

It was perfect.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: wonderings

wonderings

we act like it’s a week
of happenings to call holy
but it’s only a day or two
most of the days go by
silent and unscheduled
like most days go by

sure there’s the donkey
and the coats in the road
but then nothing much until
supper for the last time when
no one really understood it
was their last time together

it’s late Sunday night
and I only have a hint of
what my tomorrow might
bring but I have questions
wonderings is a better
way to say it perhaps

what did they do on the
days that didn’t matter?
did they think it was
just another week
even with the donkey?
what did they think
was going to happen?

even in Jesus’ last week
not every moment was
saturated with significance
some days are for washing
cloaks and picking up palms
those don’t get written

Peace,
Milton

 

 

 

lenten journal: extended run

extended run

it was foggy and grey
almost the whole day
rain hung like a curtain
in an empty theater
the sun didn’t show
until late afternoon
by then we’d played
our small scenes
that felt more like
a dress rehearsal
for a series of solo
acts or so it seemed
but I don’t believe it
a scene unseen is
still a performance
a book unread is
still an offering
a rained out day
is not a loss but an
invitation to improv
or perhaps a chance
to rest like it matters
after all this show
has an extended run

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: confession stand

In my newsletter this week, I wrote about Caitlin Clark, the point guard for the Iowa Hawkeyes who are playing tonight for a spot in the National Championship Game on Sunday. In describing her prowess, I said,

She is known for her shooting ability, particularly her three-pointers that she can drop from the confession stands on the upper deck of the arena.

The typo is obvious: I meant concession stand instead of confession.

I make errors on a regular basis–and not just on the blog–but a similar one that came to mind when I saw my mistake was this poem where I wrote,

would that we had a ladder to
make a consolation of ourselves

when what I meant was a constellation. After some thought, consolation seemed less of a mistake than I had imagined. We would do well to make a consolation of ourselves.

My life in church has been spent in Protestant houses of worship, so confessionals are not a part of my experience, but we normally have a prayer of confession during our services that we say in unison. My etymological dictionary tells me that the Latin roots of the word confess break down into con (together) and fateri (to admit): to admit together–which is what we do on Sunday mornings, but I’m not sure what that looks like on the upper deck of a basketball arena, much less what a confession stand might look like.

The point of confession is not to tell God something God does not already know. I had a friend in Dallas who said the maddest she ever saw her priest was when she, as a college student, went to Confession one Saturday afternoon and asked if she could confess what she knew she was going to do later and get it over with. It doesn’t work that way either. God is not keeping score. The power in confession is in coming clean to ourselves and to one another in the presence of God and reminding ourselves that God’s love and forgiveness aren’t riding on whether we left something out.

But I digress. I didn’t mean for this to become a mini sermon. Back to the confession stands.

I picture tables with folks standing around sharing stories, which means they would still need to serve food–hot dogs, for sure–since eating together opens our hearts to vulnerability. I’m not sure what would be served at a confession stand, but it wouldn’t all be about what we had done wrong. We confess more than our sins. We confess what matters to us, what moves us, what we are willing to go the wall for, what kind of long shot we are willing to take.

Come to think of it, this might be another way we make a consolation of ourselves.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: soft opening

soft opening

the boys of summer
took to the field
at Fenway Park on
a spring afternoon
at the end of March
with the sun shining
and the temperature
in the high thirties
to start the season

I watched from the
couch with the pups
and tried to learn the
new names on the
Olde Towne Team
and thought about
the t-shirts I own
with names no
longer in the lineup

the game was a
near miss another
name for a loss
made interesting
but maybe that’s
what hope is about
taking interest in
our losses rather
than just giving up

my team begins this
year with delusions
of adequacy rather
than championships
but they’re my team
my freakin’ Red Sox
love that Dirty Water
hard times never felt
so good so good so good

Peace,
Milton