Easter

 

April 20, 2025

 

John 20.1-18

 

 

+ As I say every year, I am very much an Easter person.

 

Some people are Christmas people.

 

I am very much an Easter person.

 

For me, this Day is what it’s all about.  

 

Today everything just seems to come together.

 

This day is, by far, the most glorious day of our Christian year.

 

This is the day when it all happens.

 

This is the high point, the highlight.

 

This is what it’s all about.

 

This is what’s all about to be a Christian—to be a follower of Jesus.

 

Yes, we followed Jesus through his birth, through his childhood, through his baptism and ministry.

 

We followed Jesus as he performed miracles and raised the dead and preached and proclaimed this seemingly elusive Kingdom of God.

 

And this past week, we followed him through the exhausting journey of his last supper, his betrayal, his torture and his death.

 

And we even followed him as he descended into hell.

 

But now, all that following of Jesus pays off.

 

Now—today—is what it’s all about to be a Christian.

 

Now is the pay-off.

 

Easter, for me anyway, is like that glorious vision we are given.

 

Today is what heaven must be like.

 

Today is what those who have gone before us must experience all the time.

 

Today, all that darkness that we traveled through, all that uncertainty, all that doubt, all that pain and frustration, all that anger and anxiety and depression, all those things we thought were so powerful are now seen for what they are—illusions.

 

Today, we see that the Light that has dawned upon us this glorious Morning has driven away those shadows and has shown us only this wonderful, holy moment.

 

The tomb is empty.

 

Death is not what we thought it was.

 

Jesus, the one we have been following, the one we have doubted at times, the one we have betrayed and turned away from and been embarrassed by—the one we thought was dead—is alive.

God has raised Jesus to eternal life. 

 

Christ is alive, and because he is, we know that, even though we too will die, we too will live.

God will raise us like Jesus, as well, to eternal life. 

 

What I love about all of this is that there are no pat answers to the big questions in this moment.

 

Everything we once used to gauge a situation to be true has been thrown out the door.

 

Instead, what we have is just this one perfect moment.

 

This one glorious moment, filled with light and life and promise and hope.

 

And joy.

 

Following Jesus means following him through those miserable, hard dark times.

 

But it also means following him to this moment.

 

This is the pay-off.

 

Yes, we might be tired.

 

Yes we might be exhausted from the gauntlet of life that we have been through.

 

But somehow, in this moment, in this mystery we are celebrating today, it’s all made right.

 

And that is what Easter is all about.

 

It is about renewal.

 

It is about life not in the midst of death, but life that destroys death.

 

I can tell you that I am very grateful that I am follower of Jesus.

 

I know.

 

It’s easy to say that right now in this moment.

 

But I am even grateful for following Jesus through all that we have been through liturgically with him these last few days.

 

Because in so many ways, this is what our own lives are like as well.

 

We do have those moments of darkness and we have those moments of light.

 

We have those moments in which we feel as though we might actually be able to touch death.

 

And we have those moments in which life seems to incredible and wonderful that we almost can’t believe it.

 

Following Jesus is very much like going through the valleys and mountains of our own lives.

 

Now, in this moment, we are celebrating the victory.

 

We are celebrating the victory over every bad thing that has happened.

 

We are celebrating the victory of light over darkness.

 

We are celebrating the victory of life over death.

 

I know that it all almost seems too good to be true.

 

But it is true.

 

And we know it’s true because the One we follow has shown the way for us.

 

So, let us celebrate today.

 

Let our shouts of Alleluia be true shouts not only of joy, but of victory.

 

Let our hearts ring out as our voices do this day. And let us continue to follow Jesus into that glorious Easter Light.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

 

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! 

 

 

Holy Saturday

 

April 19, 2025

  

+ This year for Holy Week, I have been re-reading a book I read originally way back in 2006, right after it was published.

 

The book is The Last Week by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan.

 

Marcus Borg is one of my favorite contemporary theologians.

 

And this book is a good book to read to get a solid perspective on the events of Holy Week and the last days of Jesus, as well as their meaning.

 

And yes, in this book there is a whole chapter on this day, Holy Saturday, a day most people gloss over and forget.

 

Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter, of course, get all the attention.

 

As they should.

 

But today is about hell.

 

Well, not quite.

 

And it’s also interesting that your priest, who has outspokenly expressed his universalist views regarding “hell,” should pay find this particular liturgy one of his favorite for Holy Week.

 

But to truly understand it all, we must look at that whole concept of hell.

 

First of all, when we hear of the “Harrow of Hell,” or even of Christ descending into hell, we must be clear that the concept of Hell in Jesus’ day was very different than our concept of hell.

 

For Jews of his day, Hell was actually a place called “Sheol.”

 

And Sheol was not the place of hell we traditionally think of.

 

For them, Sheol was the place under the earth, where all dead people went.

 

It was, essentially, the grave.

 

Nothing more.

 

Nothing less.

 

Our concepts of hell have very little do with Sheol or even scripture.

 

Out concept of hell is based solidly on much later popular tradition, such as Dante’s Inferno.

 

This place of hell, where all bad people go, was not even known of in Jesus’ day.

 

So, Holy Saturday is the time in which we commemorate not only the fact that Jesus is lying in the tomb—in which we perform a liturgy that feels acutely like the burial service.

 

We also commemorate a very long belief that on this day, Jesus, although seemingly at rest in the tomb, was actually at work, despite the fact that it seemed he was dead.

 

He was in the depth of hell.

 

Sheol.

 

The grave.

 

The place of the dead.

 

This belief, of course, comes to us from a very basic reading of 1 Peter, and from the early Church Fathers.

 

Christ descended into death and preached to those who had died.  

 

The popular term for this is the Harrowing of Hell.

 

He went to hell and harrowed until it was empty.

 

Whenever I preach about the Harrowing of Hell I always reference the famous icon of Christ standing over the broken-open tombs pulling out Adam from one tomb and Eve from the other.

 

But there is another image I would like to draw your attention to—a more interactive image.

 

That image is, of course, the image of the labyrinth.

 

One of the many images used in walking the labyrinth is, of course, the Harrowing of Hell. 

 

When you think of the labyrinth, you can almost imagine Christ trekking his way down to the very bowels of hell, of sheol, of the grace.

 

There, he takes those waiting for him and gently and lovingly leads them back through the winding path to heaven. 

 

It’s lovely to imagine and, whether it’s true or not, I like to cling to that image.

 

As a follower of Jesus, I find the story of the Harrowing of Hell to be so compelling.

 

And in one sense, I actually DO believe in hell.

 

The hell of our own making.

 

The hells we ourselves have created right here, right on earth.

 

The hells we have going on within us at times.

 

In that sense, I can say that I have more certainly been there.

 

I’ve been to hell.

 

More than once.

 

As we all have.

 

I have known despair.

 

I have known that feeling that I thought I would actually die from bleakness.

 

Or wished I could die.

 

But didn’t.

 

Even death wasn’t, in that moment, the worst thing that could happen.

 

That place of despair was.

 

It’s the worst place to be.

 

Which is why this morning’s liturgy is so important to me.

 

In the depth of hell, even there, when we think there is no one coming for us—just when we’ve finally given up hope, Someone does.

 

Christ comes to us, even there.

 

He comes to us in the depths of our despair, of our personal darkness, of that sense of being undead, and what does he do?

 

He leads us out.

 

I know this is a very unpopular belief for many Christians.

 

Many Christians simply cannot believe it.

 

Hell is eternal, they believe

 

And it should be.

 

If you turn your back on God, then you should be in hell forever and ever, they believe.

 

If you do wrong in life, you should be punished for all eternity, they will argue.

 

I don’t think it’s any surprise to any of you to hear me say that I definitely don’t agree.

 

And my faith speaks loudly to me on this issue.

 

The God I serve, the God I love and believe in, is not a God who would act in such a way.

 

So, yes, there is a hell.

 

As I said, I’ve been there.

 

The hell I believe most certainly exists.

 

And many of us—most of us—have been there at least once.

 

Some of us have been there again and again.

 

Any of us who have suffered from depression or severe anxiety, or have lost a loved one, or have doubted our faith, or have thought God is not a God of love—we have all known this hell. 

 

But none of them are eternal hells.

 

I do believe that even those hells will one day come to an end.

 

I do believe that Christ comes to us, even there, in the depths of those personal hells.

 

I believe that one day, even those hells will be harrowed and emptied, once and for all.

 

Until that day happens, none of us should be too content.

 

None of us should rejoice too loudly.  

 

None of should exult in our own salvation, until salvation is granted to all.

 

If there is an eternal hell and punishment, my salvation is not going to be what I thought it was.  

 

And that is the real point of this day.

 

I love the fact that, no matter where I am, no matter where I put myself, no matter what depths and hells and darknesses I sink myself into, even there Christ will find me. 

 

And I know that the Christ I serve and follow will not rest until the last of his lost loved ones is found and brought back.

 

It’s not a popular belief in the Christian Church.

 

And that baffles me.

 

Why isn’t it more popular?

 

Why do we not proclaim a Savior who comes to us in our own hells and bring us out?

 

Why do we not proclaim a God of love who will bring an end, once and for all, to hell? 

 

We as Christians should be pondering these issues.

 

And we should be struggling with them.

 

And we should be seeking God’s knowledge on them.

 

On this very sad, very bleak Holy Saturday morning, I find a great joy in knowing that, as far as we seem to be in this moment from Easter glory, Easter glory is still happening, unseen by us, like a seed slowly blooming in the ground.

 

That Victory of God we celebrate this evening and tomorrow morning and throughout the season of Easter is more glorious than anything we can imagine.

 

And it is more powerful than anything we can even begin to comprehend.

 

In my own personal hells the greatest moment is when I can turn from my darkness toward the light and find consolation in the God who has come to me, even there, in my personal agony.

 

Even there, God in Christ comes to me and frees me.

 

God has done it before.

 

And I have no doubt God will do it again.  

 

In the bleak waters of abandonment, God has sent the buoy, the lifesaver of Christ to hold us up and bring us out of the waters.

 

That is what we are celebrating this Holy Saturday morning.

 

That is how we find our joy.

 

Our joy is close at hand, even though it seems gone from us.

 

Our joy is just within reach, even in this moment when it seems buried in the ground and lost.

 

 

Good Friday

 April 18, 2025

 

 

+ When you came into church today, did you notice a kind of different smell?

 

Something different than the usual incense?

 

Well, that smell you smell today is the smell of nard.

 

It’s a beautiful smell, if you ask me.

 

So, why nard?

 

Well, way back in 2019, when we got our beautiful new altar, when it was consecrated by Bishop Carol Gallagher, part of the consecration rite included pouring chrism over the top of it.

 

Chrism is the specially consecrated oil that is consecrated by a bishop, and is used for anointing.

 

Chrism is even more special because it contains nard.

 

Nard is a very fragrant oil that is added to the olive oil of chrism.

 

And nard is also the oil that Mary the sister of Martha and Lazarus, anointed the feet of Jesus with just before his crucifixion.

 

Nard is what the body of Jesus would’ve been anointed with when it was placed in the tomb.

 

And nard is used to consecrate an altar, because the altar is a representation of the tomb of Jesus.

 

Our altar here is a representation of the tomb of Jesus.

 

It is a kind of personal tradition over the last few years, following our Maundy Thursday Mass, after the altar was stripped of its paraments, after it was stripped of the fair linen (which represents the burial shroud of Jesus), I pour chrism over the top of the altar and work it in to the wood.

 

I do this every year.

 

It’s a kind of tradition I do after everyone has left the church on Maundy Thursday and I have some time alone—with the sacrament reserved on the altar of repose in the chapel in the undercroft, in the time I spend here in this stripped-down church.  

 

As I have been saying throughout Lent this year, unless we see what happens to Jesus as our story, unless we realize that what happens to Jesus happens to us as well, the story of Jesus remains wholly objective—wholly other.

 

We are called to embody the life and yes even the death of Jesus.

 

His story is our story.

 

His cross is our cross.

 

His tomb is our tomb.

 

The nard that anoints the body of Jesus is the nard that anoints our bodies as well.

 

In a short while, there will be an opportunity for you to come forward, to venerate the cross of Christ.

 

This cross is a special cross.

 

It was a cross made 15 years, for Holy Week 2010.

 

This cross was made by my father for that last Good Friday before he died.

 

It is especially ironic I think that he died on the Feast of the Holy Cross (September 14) in 2010.

 

As you come forward to venerate the cross, please see it for what it is.

 

Look at it.

 

See it for what it represents.

 

Ponder what all of this represents.

 

The brokenness of Jesus.

 

That one word is what hangs in the air right now like the smell of nard from the chrism anointed into eh wood of this altar.

 

Brokenness. 

 

In many ways, that is what this day is all about.

 

Brokenness.

 

The Jesus we encounter today is slowly, deliberately being broken.

 

This moment we are experiencing right now is a moment of brokenness.

 

Brokenness, in the shadow of the cross, the nails, the thorns. 

 

Broken by the whips.  

 

Broken under the weight of the Cross.  

 

Broken by his friends, his loved ones.

 

Broken by the thugs and the soldiers and all those who turned away from him and betrayed him.

 

 In this dark moment, our own brokenness seems more profound, more real, as well.  

 

We can feel this brokenness now in a way we never have before.

 

Our brokenness is shown back to us like the reflection in a dark mirror as we look upon that broken Body on the cross.

 

We have all wondered at times in our lives if God, who once was such a source of joy and gladness to us, had turned away from us.

 

We have all known what the anguish of losing someone love feels like, whether we lost that person to death, or to a change of feelings, or simply due to desertion.

 

Some of us have known that fear that comes when we are faced with our mortality in the face of illness, and we think there will never be a time when we will never be well again. 

 

This dark place is a terrible place to be.

 

But as Bishop Charles Stevenson once wrote:

 

“To receive the light, we must accept the darkness. We must go into the tomb of all that haunts us, even the loss of faith itself, to discover a truth older than death.”

 

 Yes, we have known brokenness in our lives.

 

We have known those moments of loss and abandonment.

 

We have known those moments in which we have been betrayed.  

 

We have known those moments when we have lost someone we have cared for so much, either through death or a broken relationship.  

 

We have known those moments of darkness in which we cannot even imagine the light.

 

But, for as followers of Jesus, we know there is light.

 

Even today, we know it is there, just beyond our grasp.  

 

We know that what seems like a bleak, black moment will be replaced by the blinding Light of the Resurrection.  

 

What seems like a moment of unrelenting despair will soon be replaced by an unleashing of unrestrained joy.

This present despair will be turned completely around.

 

This present darkness will be vanquished.

 

This present pain will be replaced with a comfort that brings about peace.

 

This present brokenness will be healed fully and completely, leaving not even a scar.

 

In a short time (though it might not seem like it) our brokenness will be made whole.

 

And will know there is no real defeat, ultimately.  

 

Ultimately there will be victory.

 

Victory over everything we are feeling sadness over at this moment.

 

Victory over the pain, and brokenness, and loss, and death we are commemorating

 

This is what today is about.   

 

This is what our journey in following Jesus brings to us.

 

All we need to do is go where the journey leads us.

 

All we need to do is follow Jesus, yes, even through this broken moment.

 

Because if we do, we will, like him, be raised by God out of this broken place.

 

The God in whom we, like Jesus, trust, will reach out to us, even here, in this place, on this bleak day, and will raise us up.

 

Following Jesus, means following him, even to this dark and bleak place.

 

But, we, who have trusted in him, will soon realize this is, most definitely, not the end of the story.

 

Not by any means.

 

We will, in a short time know, that,  in our following of him, we will know joy—even a joy that, for this moment, seems far off.  

 

Palm Sunday

 

April 13, 2025

 +So, this is how we begin Holy Week 2025.

 Our liturgy today—this service we have this morning—begins on a high note, as it always does.

 Jesus enters in a hail of praises.

 The crowds acclaim him.

 It is a wonderful and glorious moment as Jesus enters Jerusalem, praised by everyone.

 But everything turns quickly.

 What begins on a high note, ends on the lowest note possible.

 The crowds quickly turn against him.

 He is betrayed. He is whipped. He is condemned.

 And although we hopefully have not physically experienced this things, most of us, have been here at least emotionally.

 We have known these highs and lows in our own lives.

 We have known the high notes—those glorious, happy moments that we prayed would never end.

 And we have known the low notes—when we thought nothing could be worse.

 And sometimes these highs and lows have happened to us as quickly as they did for Jesus.

 Unless we make personal what is happening to Jesus in our Gospel reading this morning and throughout this coming holy week, it remains a story completely removed from our own lives.

 As we hear this reading, we do relate to Jesus in his suffering and death.

 How can we not?

 When we hear this Gospel—this very disturbing reading—how can we not feel what he felt?

 How can we sit here passively and not react in some way to this violence done to him?

 How can we sit here and not feel, in some small way, the betrayal, the pain, the suffering?

 After all, none of us in this church this morning, has been able to get to this point in our lives unscathed in some way.

 We all carry our own passions—our own crucifixions—with us.

 We have all known betrayal in our lives as times.

 We have all known what it feels like to be alone—to feel as though there is no one to comfort us.

 Whenever we feel these things, we are sharing in the story of Jesus.

 We are bearing, in our very selves, the very wounds of Jesus—the bruises, the whip marks, the nails. 

 And when we suffer in any way in this life, and we all have, we have cried out, “where are you, God?”

 That is what this story of Jesus shows us very clearly.

 Where is God when we suffer?

 Where is God when it seems as though everyone has turned from us, and abandoned us?

 Where is God in our agony?

 Where is God?

 The death of Jesus shows us where God is in those moments.

 Where is God?

 God is right here, suffering with us in those moments.

 How do we know this?

 Because we see it clearly and acutely in this story of Jesus.

 As I said, the Gospel story we heard this morning is our story.

 For those of us who carry wounds with us, we are the ones carrying the wounds of Jesus in our bodies and in our souls as well.

 Every time we hear the story of Jesus’ torture and death and can relate to it, every time we can hear that story and feel what Jesus felt because we too have been maligned, attacked, betrayed, insulted, spat upon, or discriminated against then we too are sharing in the story.

 Every time we are turned away and betrayed, every time we are deceived, and every time we feel real, deep, spiritual pain, we are sharing in Jesus’ passion.

 When we can feel the wounds we carry around with us begin to bleed again when we hear the story of Jesus’ death, this story becomes our story too.

 But…and this is very important BUT, there’s something wonderful and incredible about all of this as well.

 The greatest part about sharing in this story of Jesus is that we get to share in the whole story.

 Look what awaits us next Sunday.

 These sufferings we hear about today and in our own lives are ultimately temporary.

 But what we celebrate next Sunday is forever—it is unending.

 Easter morning awaits us all—that day in which we will rise from the ashes of this life—the ashes of Ash Wednesday, the ashes of these palms we wave this morning, the ashes of war and discrimination, and live anew in that unending dawn.

 Next Sunday reminds us is that, no matter how painful our sufferings have been, no matter how deep our wounds are, God, who has suffered with us, will always raise us from this pain of ours, just as God raised Jesus from his tomb.

 God will dry all our tears.

 All our pains will be healed in the glorious light of Easter morning.

 This is our hope.

 This is what we are striving toward in case we might forget that fact.

 Our own Easter morning awaits us, as well.

 So, as difficult as it might be to hear this morning’s Gospel, as hard as it is to relive our pains and sufferings as we experience the pains and sufferings of Jesus, just remember that in the darkness of Good Friday, the dawn of Easter morning is about to break.

 With it, the wounds disappear.

 The pains and the sufferings are forgotten.

 The tears are dried for good.

 The grave will lie empty behind us.

 And before us lies life.

 Unending life.

 Life without war.

 Life without violence.

 Life without discrimination.

 Life without hatred.

 Before us lies a life triumphant and glorious in ways we can only—here and now—just barely begin to comprehend.