Sunday, April 20, 2014

Easter Sunday - The Icon of the Two Marys


On the order of the Roman governor, Pilate, Jesus had been taken down from the cross for burial.  Joseph from Arimethea had secured the body, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and rolled a stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and left.  Matthew's gospels records two witnesses to this: Mary Magdalene and another Mary.
The two Marys keep a vigil for the man who has changed their lives.  Perhaps they sit in sorrow, grieving that they will never see him again see him again.  Yet their vigil might be interpreted another way.  Could their presence at the tomb be a sign of expectancy?  Is something about to happen?
The gospel writers had to deal with the fact that Jesus' inner circle of followers had abandoned him.  The women keeping vigil as mourners became a bridge for Matthew's gospel--a bridge from Jesus' absence to his resurrected presence. They became the first witnesses and the first apostles, being instructed by an angel to take the good news of Jesus' resurrection to the disciples.  They were also a bridge of reconciliation between a forgiving Christ and the men who had deserted him—whom he now calls his brothers.
Can you put yourself in their place? To find yourself being confronted by some rather scary divine power—in the earthquake and the angel appearing like lightning.  We come to church on Sunday morning with certain expectations for how the service should go, what the music should sound like, and how compelling the sermon should be.
The two Marys must have had expectations of how their morning would go.  As they walked towards the tomb, they might have expected to sit quietly in front of the closed tomb to continue grieving.  If they had heard about the Roman guards, they might have been determined to show their courage in the face of oppression. But were they expecting the power of God to act in such a scary and dramatic fashion?  Probably not one bit more than we would expect such a demonstration of divine power as we prepare to receive Holy Communion!
Matthew's account of how Christ's resurrection is discovered with an empty tomb and an angelic messenger makes certain theological points about the mystery of this moment when death was defeated and Christ's plan to reconnect with the disciples in a place--Galilee--which points beyond the confines of Jerusalem and first century Judaism.
Yet the way Matthew tells this story speaks to the intimacy, which these women felt about their relationship with Jesus.  They may not have understood what he had taught about his rising after three days, but they were not giving up on this important relationship.  Knowing Jesus, listening to him teach, seeing the miracles he wrought--all these things changed them in a way that could not be changed back.  They were not ready to "move on."
Our relationship with Jesus through our faith in him could not be just like the Marys, because we were not his first century companions.  Still they provide an example of loving faithfulness in the context of great tragedy that we might well emulate.  We have come to know Jesus in a variety of ways--through our mentors in the faith, through studying scripture, through prayer, and through receiving the sacrament of Eucharist.  Our faith can be challenged, just as theirs was, by difficult, sad, unfair, perhaps even horrific circumstances in our lives. Would the day after such a tragedy find us quietly attentive to what God chooses to reveal to us?  The steadfastness of the Marys shows an ideal of discipleship--patience in waiting on God.
Even with their steadfastness, this experience had so unsettled them with both fear and joy that they RAN to tell what they had seen--the absence of the body of Jesus and a promise that he would reconnect with the disciples.  Then an even more amazing moment happened—Jesus was no longer absent, but he was present! He had come to them to reassure them.  His love for them and theirs for him caused them to reach out to touch him and to worship him. The intimacy of their relationship defines what loving God with all your heart truly looks like.. Perhaps it also shows us what salvation means: patiently waiting for God to reveal God's self and withholding nothing of yourself, responding with love and worship.
I believe the reason most of us came to St. Nicholas' this morning was our hope of encountering the risen Lord.  Using the eyes of our hearts, let us hold onto this image--this icon even--of the Marys encountering the risen Christ.  Let it inspire us to steadfastness.  Let it inspire us to love God with all of who we are--not only for today, but for all the days we are given on this earth.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Palm Sunday - What Jesus Taught Us


Under most circumstances no one looks forward to dying--no one looks forward to suffering--no looks forward to being abandoned by one's friends.  Yet all this happened to Jesus in the week we now call "holy."  In the account we just heard from Matthew's gospel Jesus endured all these things and taught us by his example.
And what, you might ask, did he teach us?  In Matthew's view:
Jesus refused to be drawn into the politics of power being played out between the Roman authorities and the Jewish religious authorities.  He refused to be swayed by the crowd's desire for a Messiah who would overthrow the Romans.  He chose not to use his divine power to retaliate against the soldiers who mocked him, spit on him, hit him and finally crucified him. He understood he had come into our world for a purpose--to teach us how God wants us to live and to accept whatever the evil in the world would do to him because of what he taught.  He did this trusting in God's love to redeem the horror the world would do. For us it may not be the evil of the world we must accept, but the ravages of a disease.  It may be the loss of someone we love or the loss of something that gives us security, which we must accept, trusting in God's love.
Yet while trusting in God's redemptive love to surround us to strengthen us and to defeat evil in the end, like Jesus, we must open our fearful hearts to God.  We must name our fears and anxieties:  Why me?  Can't this happen some other way?  My God, why do I feel so forsaken?  Jesus cried out from the cross in desperate need for assurance that this pain he was enduring wasn't all there was.  His cry to God about being abandoned sounds much like our cries when we see no end to our suffering.  Jesus' cry and our cries are honest.  We make them hoping against hope that our suffering and our dying will not be the end.
Then Jesus breathed his last.  When one breathes a last breath one surrenders to whatever, in the end, one no longer can control.  Scholars tell us that Jesus died much more quickly than many who were crucified.  Perhaps that reveals an active choice on his part.  Active surrender does not mean that we have given up trusting.  It means, I think, that redemption of all that we have endured seems possible, even probable.
So we see a three-part movement in Jesus’ response to his passion:  trust in God's love, expression of his deepest agony, and final active surrender to what will be next.  Is this how we should respond to the pain--even the pain unto death--that we encounter in our lives?
There can be no more important task for this week we call "holy" than to consider our answer to these questions.  To live as a follower of Christ should we trust in God's love, but not fail to cry out our fears?  And then in the end, should we accept what cannot be avoided, all the while believing that God's love will redeem our pain and greet us as we emerge from our ordeal?  Ponder these questions this Holy Week . . . offer them in prayer to God.