Everything Changes | an online Easter sermon for a socially distanced people
Easter Sunday comes, but we are all still in Good Friday or Holy Saturday—and, by the look of things, will be for quite sometime. Friday and Saturday of Holy Week (which is a mapping of the main movements in this journey of our lives) remind us of the reality of pain, suffering, death, and grief. Saturday symbolizes those long periods of our lives when we grope through the shadows searching for direction, a new beginning, anything to give us hope. Saturday characterizes our lives when we can’t see into the future.
At best, the COVID19 crisis has us in Saturday. More likely, we’re still in Friday—the day of death, grief, and loss.
Into our experience of all this, Easter comes.
We face Easter differently this year. Less naive. More realistic about the other two days that, for most of society, Christianity included, are too often overlooked. We like to go straight to Easter, so enamored are we by the light, the joy, and sense of excitement.
This sermon is sober. But it’s not sedate. In it, there’s a real sense of the Force of life that not only changes us, but “threatens” (in all the right ways, IMO) to change everything. COVID19 will change us. And there’s something else at work in the dark of this season, in this Friday/Saturday of our existence. Sunday is pulling us into a future that could make us a more benevolent presence on this planet.
Below, I explore the nature of Easter, the nature of the cosmic Christ, and the nature of our humanity—not dogmatically, but poetically and socially. History shows us that when crisis hits, it’s the poets and other artists who see the way forward before the politicians do . . .
A Blessing for Medical Workers and Other Frontline Workers: #COVID19
Photo by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash
As you put yourself each day
out on the frontlines
of danger, fear, and grief,
may you find yourself enlarged by Grace
to meet the gravity of this moment.
As you serve,
and face your own fears,
may God be to you
as the earth beneath you:
firm, stable and eternal.
As you care,
aware of your own needs,
may the sky above you,
blue and broad,
remind you of the eternal power
of God’s love present to you
and moving through you.
As you practice your art,
sometimes unsure
that you are up to the task,
may the angels and ancestors,
who dwell in the presence of the Beloved,
support you and shield you from harm.
And so,
may strength come to you;
may endurance walk with you;
may hope sustain you;
may courage befriend you;
may wisdom be your guide.
And may your contribution,
though it may seem so small,
work together with all those brave souls
who offer their gifts
for the common good of all.
Amen.
Though I Walk Through the Valley | an online sermon for a socially distanced people
We enter Holy Week through the gate of Palm Sunday. In this message, I explore the power of these biblical stories, not as artifacts of history, but as agents of our spiritual transformation. I map Holy Week as a form of the perennial vision of the soul’s journey. To heal and transform what’s outside us we seek to heal and transform what’s inside us. On this journey the 23rd Psalm is an apt companion.
Today is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week. If we were together in the sanctuary, we’d re-enact Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. We’d wave our palm branches and shout our Hosannas; the children would laugh and dance, and we grownups would try to be a little more playful.
It’s different this year, we’re separated from one another, but we’ll still tell the Holy Week stories of what Jesus did and taught, and what happened to him.
What’s the purpose of these stories? Why do we keep remembering the Bible’s stories of Holy Week every year? Do we tell these stories in order to pass on interesting historical facts as if they’re part of a modern documentary film? Or is there another reason, deeper, bigger?
Hope in the Dark | An online sermon for a socially distanced community
This week, I turn to a biblical text that’s always read at Christmas. Christmas comes at the darkest time of the year in the northern hemisphere. It’s when we gather around the tale of the Incarnation, a Child being born, light shining in the darkness. We light our candles and sing Silent Night. But rarely does Christmas fit the social, political context of Isaiah 9.2-8. The times we’re now living through do fit that ancient context. And so, the text is an ancient witness to a mystic vision that helped community live through a fearful season in its life. It’s a guide for us now—an ancient word, whispering of hope, reaching us now as we live in the midst of this global pandemic, our own fearful and difficult season.
“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.”
A long time ago, people found themselves living through a time of great tumult and trouble. The despots in power had no concern whatsoever for the common person. War, disease, and famine swept through the land, causing immense suffering. There was little hope for a better future. Despair was epidemic.