Orchid

by Jamie Parsley

(after the poem “The Rose” by Gabriela Mistral)

There is a treasure
deep within the bright pink heart of the orchid.
It is your heart
slowly unfolding
the way petals unfold.
What your heart gives out
lies scattered about.

It scatters,
the way songs scatter words
or as desire is scattered
when love like this happens.
And when we resist the orchid
and all it holds within it
that’s when we burn
in the fire that comes up
from deep within it.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

April 17, 2011

+ I was talking this past week with a friend about how this Holy Week is truly an emotional roller coaster. And today, we get the whole rollercoaster in our liturgy and in our two Gospel readings. Here we find a microcosm of the roller coaster ride of what is to come this week. What begins this morning as joyful ends with jeers.

The Jesus who enters Jerusalem is the Jesus who has done some incredible things in the past few weeks, at least in the very long Gospel readings we’ve been hearing. Three weeks ago, he turned the Samaritan woman’s life around. Two weeks ago, he gave sight to a man born blind. Last week, he raised his friend Lazarus from the dead.

This day evens begin with us, his followers, singing our praises to Jesus, waving palm branches in victory. He is, at the beginning of this week, popular and accepted. For this moment, everyone seems to love him.

But then…within moments, a darkness falls. Something terrible and horrible goes wrong. What begin with rays of sunshine, ends in gathering dark storm clouds. Those joyful, exuberant shouts turn into cries of anger and accusation. Those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem have fled. They have simply disappeared from sight. And in their place an angry crowd shouts and demands the death of Jesus.

Even his followers, those who almost arrogantly proclaimed themselves followers of Jesus, have disappeared. Their arrogance has turned to embarrassment and shame. Even the Samaritan woman, whose life he turned around, the man born blind, and his friend Lazarus have disappeared and are nowhere in sight. Jesus, whom we encounter at the beginning of this liturgy this morning surrounded by crowds of cheering, joyful people, is by the end of it, alone, abandoned, deserted—shunned. Everyone he considered a friend—everyone he would have trusted—has left him. And in his aloneness, he knows how they feel about him. He knows that he is an embarrassment to them. He knows that, in their eyes, he is a failure.

Throughout this coming Holy Week, the emotional roller coaster ride will get more intense. On Maundy Thursday the celebratory meal of Passover will turn into a dark and lonely night of betrayal. Jesus will descend to his lowest point after he washes the feet of his disciples. Friday will be a day of more betrayal, of torture and of an agonizing violent death in the burning hot sun. Saturday will be a day of keeping watch at the grave that would, under normal circumstances, be quickly forgotten. Through our liturgies, we are able to walk with Jesus on this painful journey and to experience the emotional ups and downs of all that will happen.

And next Sunday, the roller coaster will again be at its most intense, its greatest moment. Next Sunday at this time, we will be rejoicing. Next Sunday, we will be rejoicing with all the choirs of angels and archangels who sing their unending hymns of praise to him. We will be rejoicing in the fact that all the humiliation experienced this week has turned to joy, all desertion has turned to rewarding and wonderful friendship, all sadness to gladness, and death—horrible, ugly death—will be turned to full, complete and unending joy.

So, as we journey through the dark half of our liturgy today, as we trek alongside Jesus during this Holy Week of betrayal, torture and death, let us keep our eyes focused on the Light that is about to dawn in the darkness of our lives. Let us move forward toward that Light. Even though there might be sadness on our faces now, let the joy in our hearts prompt us forward along the path we dread to take. And, next week at this time, when we gather here again, we will do basking in the Christ’s incredible Light—a Light that triumphs over the darkness of not only his death, but ours as well.

A celebration of the life of Shirley A. Carbno

Shirley A. Carbno

(September 20, 1934- April 11, 2011)

Salvation Army Chapel
Fargo
Saturday, April 16, 2011

Jeremiah 29.11-14; Psalm 71:5-9, 14-24; Hebrews 6:9-12; Luke 12.4-7


+ On December 25, 1990, my aunt Shirley gave me a Bible. In it, she wrote,

“To my dear nephew Jamie

I pray that you have a happy and prosperous New Year!

Remember JESUS loves you and so do I

Aunt Shirley”

In so many ways, that captured who Shirley was in her faith and in her personality. She was a person who always put Jesus first. But it wasn’t enough that she put Jesus first. By putting Jesus first in her life, she also wanted Jesus to use her. She truly wanted and longed to be a vessel for God to use.

In a few moments, we will sing her favorite song—the song that summed up her life, “Lord, make me a vessel”. In that song, we will sing,

Use me, Lord, to do your will,
I want to be used in your perfect plan.
I want you to use my tounge
To spread your word to everyone I can.
Use my mind so I can think right,
Please use my heart so I can love everybody;
Lord, please make me a vessel,
I want to be a vessel for you.

Being a vessel, as she would quickly tell us, is not easy. It involves something this songs tells us that must have been very difficult for Shirley.

In the song we also hear

I surrender my life totally to thee,
So mold me and make me whatever you’d have me to be.

Being a vessel means surrendering. It involves absolute and completely surrender. And surrendering, sometimes, for Shirley was difficult. It’s difficult for any of us. But as she learned more, as she experienced God’s love and grace in her life, she realized something about being a vessel for the Lord: She realized that a vessel doesn’t have to be perfect. God no where expects us to be perfect vessels. Sometimes a vessel is cracked. Sometimes it is imperfect. Sometimes it is dirty and misshapened. But no matter how imperfect the vessel may be, God can still use it.

And I think, when Shirley fully realized that in her life, she was truly able to be the vessel God wanted her to be. She found a certain freedom in that. And that is a real message from her today. She is still teaching us. She is still with us showing us the way forward.

Her daughter-in-law Pam told me a great story the other day—one that perfectly sums up who Shirley was. Even as far advanced as her Alzheimer’s was in these last few years, there was a moment when Pam’s dog was there with Shirley. The dog, sensing that Shirley wasn’t well, snuggled up to her and looked at her closely and with very sad eyes.

At one point Shirley asked Pam,” Does that dog know that I’m not feeling well?”

“I think so,” said Pam.

Shirley, without a moment’s notice, even in that fog of Alzheimer’s, immediately laid hands on the dog and began praying for it. And in that prayer she prayed that God would use that dog as a vessel.

No matter how much that disease took away from Shirley, there were some things it could not take away. And one of those things that it did not take away was her strong spirit of prayer and her incredible faith.

In January, when we were not sure Shirley was going to be with us much longer, I went into the Emergency Room. I told Shirley that I was going to pray with her. Immediately she went into prayer mode. And, as I laid hands on her and anointed her and we prayed, I saw her lips moving and—I swear—she was speaking in tongues.

Even this past Sunday, when we all gathered together in her room in the nursing home in Enderlin to bless the marriage of 57 years she had with John, we prayed prayers at the time of death and, again, I anointed her. Even in her unconscious state, she seemed to physically reacted to the prayers that were being said for her and to the anointing.

This was truly the kind of person Shirley was. She was a Christian through and through. She was a true vessel of God’s love and light.

And she led a truly scripture-saturated life. Her daughter Cathy was telling me that there were scriptures everywhere in her house. Cathy opened up a cupboard, there were scriptures. Even opening up the medicine cabinet, there were scriptures taped to the door. In her Bible, as I went through it this week, I found a small card. On one said, it “Prophecy for Shirley” by someone named Sharon. On the other said, under the date January 2, 2003, was the scripture we just heard from Hebrews chapter 6, verse 10. I’ll repeat it:

“God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him and you have helped His people and continue to help them.”

When I read it, I sort of gasped, because that prophecy for Shirley has truly come to pass. God has not forgotten the work Shirley did, nor has God forgotten the love Shirley showed to God and to others. Truly, in Shirley’s life, she helped people and continued to help them. And, I would say, she continues, even now, to help. Whether, the help was to her parents, to her siblings, to her husband, to her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, or her foster children, or to her nieces and nephews or to the many, many friends she had over the years, Shirley was a source of love and acceptance.

It really is incredible. Today, we are truly celebrating the life of this incredible, wonderful woman. We are celebrating the life she lived and the life is now living with her God. Now, I can just imagine if she were here with us this afternoon (and she IS with us today—I have no doubt) she would have a problem with me going on too much like this about her. She was not comfortable with praise. Shirley was one of the first to admit that her life was not perfect and that she herself was not perfect. She, like all of us, failed at times.

As I was going through her Bible the other day, picking out scriptures for this service, I found several notes she wrote in the margins. These notes were for scriptures that were essentially speaking to her as she sought to forgive herself for the failings she perceived in her life. She knew fully that she was a fractured and often broken vessel of God.

But what we can celebrate today is that she is now whole. She is now complete. She is in that place she longed for and hoped in all her life. She is in a place of unending light, where she tastes “the blessedness of perfect rest,” where angels now surround her. She is in that place where her heart and soul now ring out in joy to the Lord, the living God and the God of those who live. She is in that place in which she now gazes upon her Savior face to face. And, because she is there, we have much to celebrate today.

But…we can’t end our celebration of her life without a life lesson from Shirley. She wouldn’t want us to go away from here without taking something meaningful with us. And, if she were here with us today—and, as I said, she IS here with us today—she would want everyone here to remember this.

You too are vessels. You too are called to be vessels of God in your life. And, like her, you don’t have to be perfect to be a vessel. You don’t have to be pristine and without flaw. You don’t have to have perfect faith, without any doubts. Even with whatever brokenness you have within you, even with whatever flaws and shortcomings you might have, you can be a full and completely useful vessel of God in your life. Even broken, even incomplete, even misshapened, God loves us fully and completely.

And so did Shirley.

There is a line in that song that we will sing in a few moments that must’ve really spoken to Shirley, because she really did live it out fully and completely in her life. The line in the song is:

Please use my heart so I can love everybody;

God really did use Shirley’s heart. I don’t think there was a person that Shirley didn’t love in at least some way. Even when we were not good, even when we failed, even when we messed up, Shirley, we all knew, still loved us, still cared for us, still welcomed us with open arms and with all the love she could muster in herself. And, let me tell you, that was a LOT of love. That heart of hers was overflowing all the time. I sometimes was amazed at how big that heart of hers was. And I truly believe it was that overflowing heart and all that love that she had that kept her going these past few months. She was full of love, even at the end. Even in the midst of that awful illness, she was overflowing with love.

Last Sunday, when we all gathered in her room with her, the love was so strong, was so real, you could’ve cut it with a knife. And now, that love, fully freed , fully surrendered, is what sustains us today and in the days to come. Because now there is no hindrance in her love for us. Where she is now, is a place of unending, perfect love.

Be a vessel of God’s love, she is saying to each of us today. Love each other. Love God. Be a vessel of love.

And that, Shirley would say to us today, is what God wants of you. In being a vessel, we are closest to Shirley. In being a vessel for God, we will feel Shirley closer to us than we have ever felt her before. When we surrender ourselves and let ourselves be what God wants us to be, we will hear her voice in our ears, encouraging us. If we listen closely, we can almost hear her saying it to us:

“JESUS loves you,” she is saying to us today and from now on, “and so do I.”

Shirley A. Carbno

Shirley A Carbno, 76, Fargo, passed away Monday, April 11, 2011 at Maryhill Manor, Enderlin, ND surrounded by her family.

Shirley Ann Olson was born September 20, 1934 in Fargo, ND to Theodore and Phoebe (Toftehagen) Olson. She graduated from Fargo Central High. She was united in marriage to John Carbno on April 10, 1954. They were lifelong residents of Fargo. Shirley worked various jobs through the years, her last job being a demo lady at Sam’s Club.

She attended worship at the Salvation Army. She was a member of the Red Hat Ladies. She was very involved with Aglow and Bible studies. Shirley and John were very special people, they opened their home and hearts to 57 foster children awaiting adoption.

She is survived by her husband, John H., Fargo; sons, Steven, Fargo, Michael (Pam), Enderlin; daughter, Cathy Jo (Kevin) Carbno, Fargo; sister, Joyce Parsley, West Fargo; 8 grandchildren; 9 great-grandchildren; several nieces and nephews.

She was preceded in death by her parents and brother, Marvin.

CELEBRATION OF LIFE: 1:00 Saturday, April 16, 2011 at the Salvation Army Chapel, 304 Roberts Street, Fargo

BURIAL OF ASHES: Sunset Memorial Gardens, Fargo at a later date

Arrangements entrusted to Boulger Funeral Home. Online guestbook at www.boulgerfuneralhome.com.

Prayers for the soul of my aunt, Shirley Carbno

Your prayers are requested for the soul of my aunt, Shirley Carbno, who died this afternoon (April 11, 2011) at the MaryHill Manor in Enderlin, ND.


She and my uncle, John, celebrated their 57th wedding anniversary yesterday in Enderlin. The whole family was there to celebrate and say goodbye. I had the special honor and priviledge of being able to pronounce a blessing on their marriage at that time and was also able to anoint her.

Your prayers are also requested for her husband John, their children, Steve, Cathy and Michael and their families; and her sister (my mother), Joyce.

The Burial Office will be later this week.

Rest eternal grant to her, O Lord;
and let light perpetual shine upon her.

5 Lent

April 10, 2011


Ezekiel 37.1-14; John 11.1-45

+ This past week I went out to look at the flooding waters south of Fargo. I guess the flooding waters up here on the north side and out around my mother’s house weren’t enough for me. While doing so, I stopped at a beautiful church in a little town just south of Fargo called St. Benedict’s. St. Benedict’s is one of those beautiful, somewhat traditional, French churches. As I looked about the church, something off to the side caught my eye and I found myself doing a very dramatic double-take. There, on one wall, near a side altar, was a small glass-covered niche. Inside the niche was a human skull. A REAL human skull. It was the skull of one of the former priests of the parish, who died in December 1891. And there he is.

Now, I was inspired. I have revised my Will and I too would like my skull put in a glass niche right here in the wall at St. Stephen’s so you can always remember me and have me around.

Just kidding.

Still, it was a sobering experience, seeing that skull in that church. But that’s what we should have sometimes in church—sobering experiences. Experiences that make us stop and take notice. Certainly, our two readings today are sobering experiences that jar us and make us sit up and take notice.

The first, of course, is Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones. The second is the raising of Lazarus. Both are filled with images of the dead being raised. The story that probably speaks most deeply to us is the story of Lazarus. And this story takes on much deeper meaning when we examine it closely and place it within the context of its time. One of our first clues that the something is different in this story is that, when Jesus arrives at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, he is told that Lazarus has been dead four days.

This clue of “four days” is important. First of all, from simply a practical point, we can all imagine what condition Lazarus’s body would be in after four days. This body would not have been embalmed like we understand embalming today in the United States. There was no refrigeration, no sealed metal caskets, no reconstructive cosmetics for the body of Lazarus. In the heat of that country, his body would, by the fourth day, be well into the beginning stages of decomposition. There would be some major physical destruction occurring.

Second, according to Jewish understanding, when the soul left the body, a connection would still be maintained with that body for a period of three days.

Bar Kappara, a rabbi of the late second and early third century, wrote: "Until three days the soul keeps on returning to the grave, thinking that it will go back; but when it sees that the facial features have become disfigured [by decomposition], it departs and abandons it.”

In a Jewish document on mourning called the Semahot we find the following: “One may go out to the cemetery for three days to inspect the dead for a sign of life, without fear that this smacks of heathen practice. For it happened that a man was inspected after three days, and he went on to live twenty-five years; still another went on to have five children and died later.”

So, what we find here is that, according to Jewish thinking of this time, the belief was the soul might be reunited with the body up to three days, but after that, because the body would not be recognizable because of decomposition, any reuniting would be impossible. After those three days, the final separation from the body by the soul would have been complete. The soul would truly be gone. The body would truly be dead.

So, when Jesus came upon the tomb of Lazarus and tells them to roll the stone away, Martha says to him that there will be stench. He was truly dead—dead physically and dead from the perspective of his soul being truly separated from his body. So, when the tomb was opened for Jesus, he would be encountering what most of us would think was impossible. Jesus not only reunited Lazarus’ spirit with his body, he also healed the physical destruction done to Lazarus’s body by decomposition. It would have been truly amazing. And Jesus would truly have been proven to be more than just a magician, playing tricks on the people. He wasn’t simply awakening someone who appeared to be dead, someone who might have actually been in a deep coma. There was no doubt that Lazarus was truly dead and now, he was, once again alive.

Now, at first glance, both our Old Testament and Gospel readings seem, like that skull in St. Benedict’s Church, a bit morbid. These are things we don’t want to think about. But the fact is, we are rapidly heading toward Holy Week. Next week at this time, we will be celebrating the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. We will be hearing the joyful cries of the crowd as he rides forth. Within 11 days from now, we will hear those cries of joy turn into cries of jeering and accusation. And, within no time, we will be hearing cries of despair and mourning. We, as Christians who follow Jesus, will be hearing about betrayal, torture, murder and death as Jesus journeys away from us into the cold dark shadow of death. These images of death we encounter in today’s reading simply help nudge us in the direction of the events toward that which we are racing.

During Holy Week, we too will be faced with images we might find disturbing. Jesus will be betrayed and abandoned by his friends and loved ones. He will be tortured, mocked and whipped. He will be forced to carry the very instrument of his death to the place of his execution. And there he will be murdered in a very gruesome way. Following that death, he will be buried in a tomb, much the same way his friend Lazarus was. But unlike Lazarus, what happens to Jesus will take place within the three days belief at that time required for a soul to make a final break from his body.

And this brings us back to the story of Lazarus. We often make the mistake, when thinking about the story of Lazarus, to say that Lazarus was resurrected. The fact is, he was not resurrected.

In seminary, I had a professor who made very clear to us that Lazarus was not resurrected. The term he used to describe what happened to Lazarus was “resuscitation.” Lazarus was resuscitated. His soul was reunited with his healed body. But the fact was that Lazarus would eventually die again.

It is believed that, following the death of Jesus, Lazarus went to Cyprus, where he became a Bishop. In fact, one can visit two tombs of Lazarus. One can visit the empty tomb of Lazarus at Bethany, in modern Israel. And one can also visit his actual tomb in Cyprus in the Greek Orthodox Church of Agios Lazaros. There, under the altar, is the tomb which is inscribed, simply,

LAZARUS
FRIEND OF CHRIST

The tomb was actually opened in 1972 and human remains from the time of Christ were found buried there.

So, Lazarus truly did rise from the tomb in Bethany, but he was not resurrected there. He went on to live a life somewhat similar to the life he lived before. And eventually, he died again.

But Resurrection is, as we no doubt know, different. Resurrection is rising from death into a life that does not end. Resurrection is rising from all the things we encounter in our readings for today—dry bones, tombs, decomposition and death. Resurrection is rising from our own broken selves into a wholeness that will never be taken away from us. Resurrection is new bodies, a new understanding of everything, a new and unending life. Resurrection, when it happens, cannot be undone. It cannot be taken away. Resurrection destroys the hold of death.

And the first person to be resurrected was not Lazarus. The first person to be resurrected was, of course, Jesus. His resurrection is important not simply because he was the first. His resurrection is important because it, in a real sense, destroys death once and for all.

Yes, we will die. Yes, we will go down into the grave, into that place of bones and ashes. But, the resurrection of Jesus casts new light on the deaths we must die. The resurrection of Jesus shows us that we will rise from the destruction of our bodies—and our lives—into a life like the life of the resurrected Jesus. We will be raised into a life that never ends, a life in which “sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life eternal,” as we celebrate in the Burial Office of the Book of Common Prayer.

Because Jesus died and then trampled death, he took away eternal death. Our bodies may die, but we will rise again with him into a new and awesome life.

So, as we move through these last days of Lent toward that long, painful week of Holy Week, we go forward knowing full well what await us on the other side of the Cross of Good Friday. We go forward knowing that the glorious dawn of Easter awaits us. And with it, the glory of resurrection and life everlasting awaits us as well.

So, let go forward. Let us move toward Holy Week, rejoicing with the crowd. And as the days darken and we grow weary with Jesus, let us keep focused on the Easter light that is just about to dawn on all of us.

4 Lent

Lataere Sunday
April 3, 2011

Ephesians 5.8-14; John 9.1-14

+ I received my first pair of glasses when I was in the Third Grade. I hated them! I hated wearing glasses. They were awful! And during the 26 years I wore glasses, I became dependent upon each successive pair. In High School, I tried contacts and wore them, with much discomfort, for many years. Through it all, I learned to live with that sense of pseudo-blindness that existed always in my life as a nearsighted person. There was always the fear of what might happen on vacation if my glasses broke, or I lost a contact.


I’m not alone, of course. Many of us here wear glasses or contacts and we know what life would be like without them. We realized how dependent we are upon them.

I never fully appreciated it until I had LASIK surgery. It was amazing, as I was going through the surgery, when all of a sudden, sight—clear, crisp sight—came first to one eye and then the other. It was truly a miracle in my life. Before I heard of LASIK I never imagined there would be a time when I would be able to see without glasses or contacts. Although I was never completely blind, being nearsighted was difficult and life would have been impossible without my glasses or contacts.

I remember, in the days following surgery, when I could see—when I could actually go about without glasses and see—thinking to myself about our Gospel reading for this morning. It truly felt like a miracle.

In sense today—Lataere Sunday, which if the half-way mark of Lent—is a time for us to examine this whole sense of blindness. Not just physical blindness, but spiritual blindness, as well.

My theme for Lent this year, as you have all heard me say by now, has been brokenness, or more specifically, our brokenness in relation to the broken Body of Jesus in the Eucharist. In a sense, our brokenness and our blindness are similar. In our brokenness we become like blind people—or, at least, like nearsighted people. We grope about. We find ourselves dependent upon those things that we think give us come sense of clarity. But ultimately, nothing really seems to heal our nearsightedness. In fact our sight seems to get worse and worse as we age.

In our Gospel reading for today, we find a man blind from birth. The miracle Jesus performs for him is truly a BIG miracle. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for this man? Here he is, born without sight, suddenly seeing. It must have been quite a shock. It would, no doubt, involve a complete reeducation of one’s whole self. By the time he reached the age he was—he was maybe in his twenties or thirties—he no doubt had an idea in his mind of what things may have looked like. And, with the return of his vision, he was, I’m certain, amazed at what things actually looked like. Even things we might take for granted, such as the faces of our mother and father or spouse, would have been new for this man.

So, the miracle Jesus performs is truly a far-ranging miracle. There’s also an interesting analytical post-script to our Gospel reading. The people we have encountered in our Gospel readings these past two weeks are nameless people. Last week, Jesus spoke to the nameless Samaritan woman at the well. The Eastern Orthodox Church has actually given her a name. In the Eastern Church, she commemorated as St. Photini (and no, I am not talking about a drink Episcopalians order at the country club).

This week, the blind man is also never mentioned by name. Just like St. Photini, he is never mentioned again in the Gospels and we have no idea what happened to him after his encounter with Jesus. But it is interesting to ask: What did happen to him after all these events? Obviously he went away a believer. But what then?

Well, the Orthodox Church yet again came up with an answer to that question. In the Eastern Church the Blind Man has a name and I commemorated as St. Celidonius the Blind Man. St. Celidonius, it is believed, did in fact go on to become a loyal disciple of Jesus. In fact, following Jesus’ death, it is believed he went away from Palestine with St. Lazarus—the same one whom Jesus raised from the dead—and another disciple, Maximin. The tradition states that they went first to the island of Cyprus and, later, without Lazarus, off to Gaul, which is now modern France, and there was possibly martyred for the faith.

Another interesting spin on this story also comes from the Eastern Church. St Basil the Great and other early Church Fathers believe that St. Celidonius was not only born blind, he was actually born without eyes. This, they say, is why Jesus takes clay and places them upon the empty sockets, essentially forming eyes for Celidonius. When Celidonius washes them in the waters of Siloam, the eyes of clay became real eyes with perfect sight. They also believe that, with these eyes, also came great spiritual sight, which helped him to be courageous in the face of persecution and hostile questioning both followign the miracvle and later before his martyrdom for Christ. The Eastern Church has a wonderful hymn, in which St. Celidonius sings to Jesus:

I come to You, O Christ,
Blind from birth in my spiritual eyes
And I call to You in repentance:
You are the most radiant light of those in darkness!

This hymn really, in a sense, is our hymn as well as we hear this Gospel reading this morning We all, in our brokenness, suffer from spiritual blindness at times. We suffer from a blindness that allows us to ignore God, to ignore each other and sometimes even to ignore ourselves.

Our spiritual blindness often causes us to ignore those in need around us and this blindness causes distance and isolation in our lives, making our brokenness even deeper and more pronounced. For some of us, our spiritual blindness is merely a spiritual near- or far-sightedness.

But today, on Lataere Sunday, as we head into the latter part of Lent, we find ourselves being relieved for a bit of the heavy sense of brokenness we have been dealing with throughout Lent so far. We see a bit of clarity in our vision.

Lataere Sunday, also know as Rose Sunday or Mothering Sunday or Refreshment Sunday—is a break in our Lenten grayness. Lataere means to be joyful. Today, even in Lent, we can be joyful. It is a time for us to realize that our brokenness is not an eternal brokenness. We realize today that no matter how broken or fractured we might seem, we can be made whole once again. No matter how blind or nearsighted we might be spiritually, our spiritual sight can be returned to us once again. And in doing so, we find ourselves almost chuckling over our brokenness, over our blindness. We, in a sense, find ourselves on this Lataere Sunday—this joyful Sunday in Lent—laughing at our brokenness.

There is a wonderful tradition for this Lataere Sunday. On this Sunday in Lent, there are wonderful cakes that are traditionally made and served. These are Simnel Cakes. I actually MADE a simnel cake for us this morning. It is downstairs, waiting for us at coffee hour. And I even followed the wonderful traditions that go along with making a simnel cakes for Lataere Sunday.

One tradition is for eleven marzipan balls to be placed on the top of the cake, representing the eleven true disciples. I didn’t use marzipan balls this morning. I used robin eggs. But you get the idea.

Also, there’s a wonderful Portuguese tradition regarding simnel cakes on Lataere Sunday. The Rev'd Dr. Elizabeth Kaeton shared this tradition on a listerv this past week and it really captured my imagination. In this particular tradition, simnel cakes are called "Bolos do riso" or "Laughter Cakes". I actually used this tradition this year in making simnel cakes including the secret ingredient to bolos do riso.

Dr. Kaeton writes: “…here's the special ingredient - the secret of ‘Laughter Cakes’. After every ingredient had been added and stirred, and before [my grandmother] poured the batter into the muffin tins or cake pans, she would gather us round the Very Large Mixing Bowl. And then, she would tell us not to worry. That Lent was a very sad time, but that soon, it would be Easter. Jesus would play a wonderful trick on Satan, and death would not kill him. And, because death could no longer kill Jesus, death could no longer kill us. Because of Jesus, we would know eternal life in heaven where we would all someday be, once again. She would tell us this and then say, ‘So, laugh, children. Laugh into the bowl. Laugh into the cake. Laugh at the Devil. He can't win. He can't ever win! Only Jesus can win. Only Jesus! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!’ And, we would. Laugh. Loud. Right into the bowl. I swear people ten blocks away could hear us laugh. It was the best part of making - and eating - that cake.”


Yes, I did use the secret ingredient this morning in making simnel cakes for us. I, like Dr. Kaeton’s grandmother, laughed as I mixed the cake. But what I love best about the story she shares is that Lent is a time for us to sit up, shrug off the seriousness of the season, and laugh. And not just laugh for the sake for laughing. But actually laugh at the devil. Laugh at all that has caused us to be the broken people we are. Laugh at the ridiculousness of our own selfish, self-centered, egotistical lives. Laugh at what has separated us from us each other, from God and from ourselves. Laugh at our nearsightedness, and laugh at our broken, fractured selves.

I really don’t thinks there’s anything during Lent than to laugh. It really does have a special sound to it—this Lenten laughter. It echoes just a bit more profoundly. And with it this Lenten laughter, we find ourselves experiencing a bit of the joy that we will all be experiencing in a few weeks at Easter arts.

Lataere Sunday is a great to remind ourselves that, even in our brokenness, we will not be broken forever. We will be made whole. ike St. Celidonius, we too will be made whole. We too will see with clarity and vision. And like him, we too will see the darkness lifted from our lives and the dazzling light of Christ breaking through.

So, today, on this Lataere Sunday—on this joyful Sunday in Lent—let’s laugh at the devil. Let’s laugh at everything that chips away at us and break us down and cases us to be spiritually blind. And let us, today, do as Dr. Kaeton’s grandmother told those grandchildren.

“Laugh at the Devil,” she is telling us. “ He can't win. He can't ever win! Only Jesus can win. Only Jesus!”