Easter: Awakening to the Power of Human Resilience

A brief Easter meditation drawn from 1 Corinthians 15.50-58, John 20.1, and An Easter Acclamation: Cosmic and Evolutionary. My sermon on Sunday, April 21, 2019, preached at Davis Community Church. Find the audio of the sermon here.

Last summer, my wife, Patty, and walked past the Notre-Dame Cathedral. The line looked excruciatingly long. And so, we passed by and crossed the Pont des Coeurs bridge and explored the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter instead.

This last Monday, I watched, along with hundreds of thousands of Parisians and millions around the world, as Notre Dame, astonishingly, collapsed in flames. Though I’d never been inside it, the grand cathedral was nevertheless inside of me. Notre Dame is the spiritual heart not only of Paris, but in many ways, the consciousness of the Western world—religious and non-religious.

Since the fourth century, a place of worship has occupied the site—the current structure, since the mid-twelfth century. Notre-Dame is an architectural masterpiece, a symbol of artistic genius and ardent spiritual devotion. It’s stood as the cultural and spiritual center of Western life for 850 years—withstanding plague, war, environmental disaster, revolutionary iconoclasm, and even Hitler’s destructive hatred for any glory that wasn’t German.

One journalist wrote as she watched Notre Dame burn: “To those of us who live in Paris, Notre-Dame is a familiar landscape, as solid as a mountain. Durable as time. How could it burn so fast?

Ann Hidalgo, mayor of Paris, watched the flames from her office window, and confessed to what so many felt: “absolutely powerless”.

The historian, Jean-Francois Colosimo said the scene evoked images of the end of the world. The fire, he said, seemed to communicate “the extreme fragility of our situation.”

To feel horror at Notre-Dame’s collapse is human, and yet it’s also an experience of privilege. Today, over two hundred people were killed in terrorist attacks on churches Sri Lanka and high-end hotels catering to Westerners. I do feel myself chastened that I’m more affected by the collapse of a building than by the deaths of hundreds. I’m not proud of that. Such attacks are too commonplace today. I for one am almost numb to them. The collapse of Notre-Dame, caused likely by a technological malfunction or oversight rather than by act of human hatred and violence, strikes deeply, I think, because it is a sign of the times.

There are things, dear to us all, once as solid as a mountain, that are collapsing.

There are experiences coming at us that make us feel powerless.

There are images swirling in our heads that make us feel terribly vulnerable.

Alongside the story of our times, comes another story of collapse, powerlessness, and vulnerability—

—the story of Jesus, the strong and courageous healer of the sick and dying, who in the end becomes so terribly fragile and vulnerable…

—Jesus, revolutionary and reformer in whom the ordinary people placed their hope for a better world, who in the end becomes apparently powerless against the Empire…

—Jesus, God’s advocate of the poor, excluded, and forgotten, who in the end is crucified, dead, and buried…

It feels as if Saint Paul in today’s reading was either wrong or terribly naive—“Death does have the victory; death does sting.”

It must have felt that way to the followers of Jesus on that first Easter long ago.

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb that first Easter morning feeling like it was the end of the world—that her dreams for a better life were always just that, dreams; that shame would tell her always that she was a fool for having dared to believe she was more than what others made her out to be; that people she loved would only die, or leave, or betray her in the end; that she was powerless and vulnerable against the forces of the tyranny, greed, and violence of a male-dominated, power-hungry world.

These were the stories that stalked her soul—and for good reason. Collapse, powerlessness, and vulnerability—loss, death, betrayal, and abuse—these were things she knew all too well.

But there was another story rising around her in the darkness of that first Easter morning—one she could not yet see or trust. It was a new story rising out of of the darkness, out of the collapse, powerlessness, and vulnerability—rising up against her doubts and fears, shame and despair.

What was rising around and within her—though she could not yet see or trust it—was the counter-narrative, the alternative story around which the entire cosmos turns—the truth that it is out of collapse, out of powerlessness, out of vulnerability that new life comes. Always. This fact is as true for human life as it is for the giant sequoia that rises from the tiny seed propagated only by fire. It’s as true for your life and mine as it is for a planet born from a dying star.

This is the story of Easter—

—that life comes from death; that the future rises from our failures; that wholeness comes from our brokenness; that vulnerability and fear, shame and doubt are not weakness. No, this is the strong stuff, the humus, from which new life always comes…

—Jesus rises in the dark of night. A planet is born from a dying star. A sequoia rises from the scorched forest floor where a single cone, broken open by extreme heat, drops a seed into the humus of the earth, and there countless dead things conspire to give birth to life…

—Out of vulnerability. Out of powerlessness. Out of collapse—life rises always. Inevitably. Irrepressibly. Irresistibly. Life always rises…

On a recent trip to the border—there, to practice solidarity with those fleeing violence, poverty, and despair in the hope of a new and better life—a Central American spoke the best and simplest definition of Easter I think I’ve ever heard. It’s a common saying south of the border. And for good reason. It’s spoken against cartels, gangs, the environmental disaster of climate change on poor farmers, and against repressive governments on both sides of the border. And we in the north would do well to learn it—if we wish not merely to survive the age, but to thrive.

She spoke of the key to human resilience, the ground from which unstoppable courage, even revolution can rise.

With the quiet determination of a soul that knows what Easter knows, this young woman of irrepressible courage said: “They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds.”

We are all seeds and in us is a force of life that cannot, indeed, will not be conquered—ever.

So, don’t run from the struggle of life.

When you fall—and you will—get back up.

When you’re afraid and falter, keep going.

You are seeds, all of you.

We are seeds, all of us—together. You notice that she didn’t say, “They tried to bury me.” She said, “They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds.” We rise together, in relationship, in community…never alone…but together—filled with the irrepressible power of love that alway seeks life, each of us an audacious seed that can’t help but press up from the earth—buried, yes, but in Christ, indomitable, revolutionary, and free!n

An Easter Acclamation: Cosmic and Evolutionary

After searching for an opening Easter Acclamation that's progressive and cosmic in nature, and finding nothing that went where I'd like to take the congregation on Easter, I decided I'd just have to write one.  

So, here's an acclamation/invocation that draws on themes found in the high Christology of Saint Paul (Colossians) and well as the Gospel of Thomas (from the Nag Hammadi collection of early Christian texts); it's also drawn from the medieval mystics Meister Eckhart and Hildegard von Bingen, and the modern evolutionary theologians, Teilhard de Chardin and Thomas Berry.  I also hope it has some of the poetic flare of that great earth mystic, Saint John (Muir) of the Mountains.  

Travis Reed, the remarkable film maker, just put the poem/prayer to the sights and sounds of his craft.

It’s a considerable bump up from just the written text. Enjoy! And my it invite you to expand your experience of the Eastered life.

Here’s the link to the video: https://www.theworkofthepeople.com/o-radiant-light

PS: I’m sorry about the pay-wall with theworkofthepeople site. But Travis has to make a living too and must guard against thievery of his work. But seriously, his site is a “netflix” for the soul and well worth a modest subscription fee (I make nothing from it; my poem was my gift to the project).

I do realize the video ends abruptly. If you come to church on Easter (the second and third services) you’ll experience it. But if you’d like the text, here it is:

O Radiant Light, 

O Flame Divine, 

as shines the light of morning's dawn—

Come, bless the embers of the earth,

sparks flung from our eternal birth.

O Word of God, 

the Source of Life, 

you rouse us from the dark of night

to open souls and minds and ears

and hear the music of the spheres.

You are the Fire that birth’d all things,

the Force that spins the galaxies;

you are the Flame within all flames,

the Hidden Power that knows no name.

From you all things that are were sent,

and into you does all extend.

Peel back the bark of any tree,

lift up a stone—they blaze with Thee!

O Happy Light

We feel your heat

The starlight shining in our bones

You fill us all with cosmic grace,

We host your presence in this place.

O Risen Christ,

you shine in us,

the splendor of your holiness;

despite the sting of death and strife,

we rise to dance this Dance of Life.

Holy Week: Mapping the Soul’s Journey

Religion, despite its many problems—and the spirituality that keeps it fresh—holds the power to transform our lives. Take Holy Week, for example. Holy week is an ancient practice of soul-care. It is, at its core, a mapping of the human journey—from our grand entrance, through ups and downs of our lives, into suffering, death, and final transformation. Holy Week aims to teach us to walk our journey with courage and hope, no matter what may come our way. Holy Week is a crash course in being human, being human well, and growing our soul in such a way that we manifest the presence of God.

I don’t know where else we can go to school ourselves in what it means to live well. There are, of course, classes and books and teachers—many of them quite good and helpful. But over the course of my life and ministry, I’ve come to more fully appreciate this ancient practice as some of the best soul-care available, some of the best teaching on living and dying well that we can find anywhere. What’s more, it’s an annual ritual that we do together. Over and over, in the course of a life, we come to this annual renewal of our understanding and practice of what it takes to live well.

So I write to invite you into Holy Week. I invite you into all of it, all eight days. Here’s a little map for your journey:

The first day, Palm Sunday, we remember how we entered life—innocent, humble, and vulnerable, carried not by our own two legs, but by someone else, and into a life we cannot control. Palm Sunday, Jesus’ Triumphal Entry, teaches us what we all must do—enter the experiment and experience of our lives, show up, and face whatever will come our way.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are days without religious services. They map the ordinary seasons of our lives, those years that are easy to forget. Yet, God is there teaching in the Temple of our bodies, shaping our souls, even when we don’t know it.

Thursday comes. It’s the Last Supper; we feast on life itself, the gift of the life God gives us. And we take stock of those treacherous parts within us, the inner-Judas, the dark thoughts and impulses and fears that threaten our lives. The ritual of the foot washing reminds us that while there are unclean parts of us, we are, nevertheless, completely loved.

Then on Friday, which our tradition calls “Good,” Jesus dies in the service of love. We confront the forces of violence, greed, and evil in the world. We confess our complicity in them. We come face to face with our own mortality and ask new questions about what it means to live more fully now in the light of our coming death. But we also recognize that parts of our inner lives—the assumptions, behaviors, prejudices, masks, competing voices, and lies we’ve believed too long—all this must die in the service of something greater: love and the life love lives to nourish and sustain. In fact, we come to realize that only by suffering, by feeling the pain of life, the losses and trauma’s we’ve experienced, can the lifeblood within us flow freely and can our souls make the journey into the fullness of who we really are. The Good Friday service carries into the darkness the false parts of us that must die if we are to live.

Holy Saturday is a day of quiet. Jesus is in the tomb, and we reconnect humbly with the earth from which we come.

Then Easter comes. On Saturday night, at the Vigil, we carry the light of Christ back into the darkened sanctuary of our lives. We bear the sacred flame and chant the Alleluia , pressing back against the darkness and our fears, witnesses to the triumph of love and life and to the inner impulse of our souls that seek freedom and fulfillment. And then on Easter morning, Alleluias fill our ears, and we sense the soulful, irrepressible force of life within us—the glad truth that death is not the last word, nor is suffering. Life always breaks through the hard ground of our winters with a new springtime of wonder and hope, past the dark woods of our lives and into the bright meadow of our soul’s flourishing.

Our life’s journey is a journey through all the ups and downs and into the transformation of our lives.

We are borne along by the power of love and the irrepressible nature of our true selves, the glory of our God-breathed souls.

We glimpse what our lives can become.

New.

Beautiful.

Powerful.

Free.

Joyous.


Leap for Christ’s Sake:  A Meditation on Physics, Cosmology, and Human Life

Unlike the other three Gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the Gospel of John begins more scientifically than it does historically.  The first line of the Gospel reads: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”  That may not sound like science to us today, but it was a form of science two thousand years ago when it was written.  It was science and philosophy and theology all rolled into one.  Back then, a university would never have relegated these disciplines to separate departments, different faculty.  And, I believe, neither will we some day in the future.  

    “All things came into being through the Word,” the Gospel says, “and without the Word, not one thing came into being.  What has come into being in the Word was life and that life was the light of all people.” 

    It’s an ancient text that’s trying to make sense of reality—science and philosophy and theology overlapping.  The author’s glimpsed something as big, as revolutionary, as epic as what Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein saw, something that changes everything.

    Trouble is, as with other breakthroughs, the vision would be met with enormous skepticism, hostility, and rejection . . .

We can survive the pain: Rainer Maria Rilke's Sonnet on suffering transformed

Here's my most recent translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's poem from his Sonnets to Orpheus, Part 1, Number 19.  Rilke writes during another time of cultural and political tumult.  This poem is part of a collection of 55 poems written in 1922 during what he called "a savage creative storm."  It's not strange that I'm drawn these days to writers and artists who worked a century ago (C.G. Jung, Herman Hesse, Teilhard de Chardin, John Muir, and so on); their experience companion my own.  

Orpheus ("God of the lyre" in this poem) is the legendary musician, poet, and prophet of ancient Greek religion and myth. Rilke, formed within a Christian milieu and who drinks from that source, broadens the spiritual journey and universalizes it bu his invocation of Orpheus.

Having lived with this poem for quite awhile, I'm drawn to its ability to describe my current experience of the crisis of our times, the effect of that experience on my inner and outer life, as well as the lives of those around me.  It permits, even reverences, the suffering while inviting me to see the way pain is gathered into Something larger and is eventually transformed.  For the Christian, there are, of course, echoes of the crucifixion and resurrection and consummation, giving shape to a hopeful narrative that can guide our lives no matter what comes our way.  

Here is it . . .

 

Like cloud-shapes, torn and molded by the wind, 

the world is being changed, and rapidly. 

What comes into the Fullness 

falls toward the Ancient Source, and gratefully.

 

Soaring over the tumult and the change, 

like some great bird, borne further and higher, 

intones the Song that pierced the dawn 

on that First Day, O God of the lyre. 

 

No one ought ever love their suffering, 

but no one ever loves without its pain; 

and as we die, we come to wondering 

 

if there was something we could not yet see— 

that winged Thing that merges with Earth’s suffering 

to make us what we otherwise would never be.