The Fixed Point

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

“You are witnesses of these things.” May I speak in the name of the Living God. Amen.

Thirty years ago I heard a lecture by Timothy Leary. You remember him. Timothy Leary was famous in the 60s and 70s as a psychologist, a futurist, a proponent of psychedelic drug research. He advocated using LSD to expand consciousness and coined the phrase: turn on, tune in, drop out. He called himself a “stand up philosopher” and when I heard him he was trying to turn us on to his vision of expanding consciousness that would enable humankind to make scientific and social breakthroughs equipping us to live in space, in life spans far beyond our earthly ones.

It was the kind of philosophy created to elicit the response: far out man. Only he was dismayed by people’s lack of enthusiasm for it. “I tell people: You could live forever, man. And they say: But my whole life is centered on death.” It’s the only thing I remember from the lecture. I guess I tuned in and dropped out of the rest of what he said. “But my whole life is centered on death.” Was mine, I wondered? Death is the one certainty in the chaotic flux of life: its fixed point. “Death and taxes” goes the old joke. Death gives life urgency and poignancy. What happens if you it that away?

Leary was talking about avoiding death. Easter talks about Christ being raised from death. Both have implications we’re quick to gloss over. Considering this increases my compassion for the disciples this morning because I have to admit my first thought on hearing that they think Jesus is a ghost in the gospel this morning is: you’ve got to be kidding. It is Easter evening. The women came at the crack of dawn with their news of angels, an empty tomb and a risen Christ but the Eleven and the rest dismissed it as “an idle tale and they did not believe them.” By the end of the day things are looking up and they’re saying: The Lord has risen indeed and has appeared to Simon. Finally, just before our passage two travelers arrive from Emmaus telling of a stranger who had fallen in step with them along the way, setting their hearts on fire as he opened the scripture to them “and how he had made himself known to them in the breaking of the bread.”

“As they were saying this,” our passage opens, “Jesus himself stood among them, and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’” And, frankly, what I’m looking for—or would be if I were hearing this for the first time—is a joyful reunion! You know when they fall down and worship him: forgiven, found and free, when everyone realizes it’s going to be all right. Peace be with you. As Deacon Chris pointed out in her Easter Vigil sermon that would be the satisfying thing to happen at this point in the story. But it doesn’t. Whatever assurance the disciples may have had evaporates. “They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost.”

Understandably somewhat vexed Jesus asks, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” Why are you so upset? Why do doubting questions flood your minds? Just as understandably vexed inside their terrified skins the disciples are thinking, well because you’re dead, Jesus. You were so thoroughly dead. Dead people stay dead. It’s one of life’s great certainties. I love the bible’s honesty. There’s no attempt to make the disciples better than they were or the moment more than it was. Confronted with the risen Christ in his inexpressible mystery —a human being beyond human whom even death couldn’t contain—they weren’t reassured: “they were startled and terrified.”

“Look at my hands,” says Jesus, “look at my feet—it’s really me. Touch me. A ghost doesn’t have muscle and bone like this. “As he said this he showed them his hands and his feet.” And the disciples know it’s true. They also know that flesh and blood doesn’t usually appear within locked doors. What are they seeing? They can’t believe what they were seeing. Maybe Leary is right: Our lives are centered on death: that fixed point, unable to see beyond it. It was all too much: it was too good to be true. “While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, [Jesus] said to them, ‘Do you have anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.” Ghosts don’t eat.

Then he got down to business, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the Law of Moses, the prophets and the psalms must be fulfilled.” And just as he had on the road to Emmaus he opened their minds to understand the scripture, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations beginning from Jerusalem.” This is just the beginning, says Jesus, the starting place. The world won’t come to you, you must go to the world. “You are witnesses of these things.”

“You are witnesses of these things.” Them? Us? Witnesses of the one who was crucified for living the way he did? Witnesses of the one who engendered love and hate in equal measure? Witnesses of the one who would not fight back—whose weapon of choice was love? Talk about startling and terrifying! The good news of repentance and forgiveness for ALL nations that Jesus died to give is to be entrusted to the Eleven and the rest? To people who thought the women’s words were an ‘idle tale,’ who thought the risen Christ was a ghost? The message of salvation is entrusted to these people? Is entrusted to us? We talk a lot about our faith in God but it is God’s faith in us that blows me away. We run when the going gets rough. We don’t believe others when they tell us about him. We think he’s a ghost when he shows us again and again he’s as real as the nail marks in his hands and feet. And he entrusts the proclamation of this to US? I don’t know! We cry. I’m not sure I believe in you! “That’s OK,” says God, “I believe in you!”

I don’t think the disciples resisted the resurrection because they didn’t understand what it meant, though of course that was part of it. I think they resisted it because on some deep disconcerting level it was beginning to dawn on them all-too-well what it meant. What if death is NOT the end? Not the final end we fear it is? Then one of the great known boundaries of life is gone. Not because we won’t go through it—as Timothy Leary was hoping—but because we will be expected to take it on knowing God holds the victory. Friends, death is a good “out,” you know. Something the world understands it’s reasonable to make decisions in terms of as in: I can’t stand in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square, I can’t admit I’m a Christian in certain parts of Iraq, I can’t defy the unjust laws against women in Afghanistan: I could die.

The disciples see the Risen Lord and think: He’s not here to reassure us. He’s here to CALL us. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Their minds are reeling with the implications. Did you see how fast the crowd turned against him? It could turn against US. Even if he DOES live he had to go through HELL first to be both literal and theological about it. O dear God if Jesus is really RAISED, really LIVES than all of life is turned upside down. Talk about a trip, a mind bending, mind altering, life changing trip! Timothy Leary was looking for expanded consciousness? Well, he was about 2 millennia too late. He wasn’t ahead of his time but behind it. Easter is the ultimate expansion of consciousness no psychedelic mind altering drugs needed. Not a mere continuation of life-as-we-know-it but an experience of the Kingdom of God breaking in through the crucified and risen Christ—transcending life and death, time and space in a way they won’t really understand until they’re caught up in it themselves through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Friends, if Christ is Risen reason for fear has been dealt a great blow. If Christ is Risen reason for inaction has been dealt a great blow. Possibilities for change and transformation through the forgiveness of sins the confronting of evil, the power of love breaks the heart open makes the mind reel. God wants to do something great with us – like change the world and transform lives. Christ comes to us and for us—and always also for others. Christ has paved the way for us and lays his claim upon us: You are witnesses of these things.

The stories of Easter, in their honesty and restraint, come as annual reminders of the END of the story. The “fixed point” of our lives is not death but Christ Crucified and Risen. We can’t stay locked in a room afraid of ghosts anymore. We don’t have to stay locked in our lives afraid of ghosts anymore: because he lives: he LIVES and in him and by him and through him so do we. We are to witness to that by the way we live our lives—by our courage, vulnerability and love. Death is not the end. Violence and oppression and injustice do not win. We are called to risk compassion and truth and solidarity: because he lives. In the resurrection death is diminished and LIFE itself, all caps, opens up in all its possibilities both here—and in some mysterious way yet to be revealed—beyond. We are witnesses of these things.

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Easter Sunday: It's Not Too Late (Video)

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

(This sermon is also available in text.)

This video is in two parts.





© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Easter Sunday: It's Not Too Late (Text)

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

(This sermon is also available in video.)

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” May I speak in the name of the Crucified and Risen Christ who leads us from darkness into his glorious light.” Amen.

Mary Magdalene. Mary Magdalene appears in virtually every story of our Lord’s resurrection, her name usually first among the women. She had been possessed by seven demons and Jesus had freed her. Seven. It was the number of completion either of perfection or of evil. To say that Mary had been possessed by seven demons is to say that she had been one very sick woman—beyond hope, beyond repair—a terror to herself and to her neighbors. I say this because we see the saints of God in stained glass and we forget the journey that they took to be where they are. Jesus had put her in her right mind, had freed her from the tomb of psychosis, depression and despair from which she could not escape. She was utterly devoted to him. By every account she was last at the cross and first at the grave. It wasn’t faith that led her there. It was love, love that could no more run away from him than he had run from her, he who had called her name: Mary, and led her into the light.

She had come, she didn’t know why, to anoint him to wrap him in spices as she’d wrapped him in love though what she could add to the 100 pounds of spices Nicodemus had already wrapped him in was difficult to say. Even for this it was too late. Still she came. She couldn’t keep away. She’d come while it was still dark—when the only people out were people you wouldn’t want to meet. The Passover had seemed interminable. She was impatient to be near him. How she thought she’d move the stone was anybody’s guess—a large disk rolled edgewise into place in a gutter at the mouth of the cave where Jesus lay. Her mind was on heavier matters: like how she was going to live without him.

The disciples had fled but she’d been there for the hammers and the nails and the blood. She was there when they crucified her Lord, was there when they laid him in the tomb. She was under no delusions as to what she would find there a face—that Face—marred beyond human semblance. The One who spoke and demons fled—her demons. The One who touched and lives were made whole. With him no storm was so big he couldn’t still it, no crowd so great that in his hands 5 loaves and 2 fish couldn’t feed it. Now it was all over. He was gone. Who would roll away the stone in her heart? That was the question—the lump in her throat? How was she going to live?

She arrives at the tomb to find it open. And expecting it about as much as we’d expect the open grave of our loved one only buried two days before she greets it with unmitigated horror. Oh NO!! Not this! More desecration! More violence! Someone has stolen him! She takes off running and returns running with Peter and the beloved disciple alongside. Peter goes into the tomb to find the linen wrapping lying there “still in its folds” says the Greek, as if he’d dematerialized out of them. His body is gone. The disciple “whom Jesus loved” goes in, too. We’re told he “saw and believed” but it could only have been but a glimmer of belief because we’re also told that they did not yet “understand the scripture that he must rise from the dead.” In any case, after all this urgent running we’re told simply that the men “go home.” Rather astonishing, but there it is.

Mary remains weeping at the tomb unable to leave the last place she saw him. Now she bends to look into the tomb but instead of linens lying there she sees is two angels where none were seen before. “Woman, why are you weeping?” They are angels but she seems strangely unaware of that. She is looking for her Lord—the one who made the lame walk and the wounded whole: “They have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have laid him.” She turns to see a man in the garden whom she presumes to be the gardener. “Woman,” he asks, “why are you weeping? Whom do you seek?” She is looking for her Lord—the one who made the deaf hear and the blind see: “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him and I will [come get him].”

He says her name: “Mary” and at the sound of it she turns. It’s an inner turning, a reorientation of mind. She’s already facing him. She is suddenly, in her right mind. He’s done it again! Suddenly astonished, she recognizes him: “Rabbouni!” Teacher! And she goes to lay hold of him. Jesus is risen and standing in front of her. She wants to lay hold of him. She wants to return to the way things were before. What else would she know? What else do we know? We are often looking behind us at the way it was before. “Do not cling to me. I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Once he does ascend we can cling all we like. God’s story moves forwards not backwards, always forward. “Go tell my brothers I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” The risen Christ sends Mary to proclaim the good news of Jesus’ resurrection to the disciples. She is the apostle to the apostles—talk about astonishing—women couldn’t even be witnesses in a court of law and Jesus entrusts her with the most important testimony of all time: I have seen the Lord!

I love the way this story is told. Mary Magdalene doesn’t recognize Jesus but he’s standing right there in front of her, right there! This is extraordinarily good news for you and me. Just because we are unaware doesn’t mean Jesus is not standing right there, right there in front of us. We think: it’s too late. It’s too late! We can’t see past the reason it’s too late. We can’t see past our tears, our shattered hopes our broken hearts. Easter tells us we have a God who doesn’t know the meaning of the words: too late, whose greatest work was done in and through the crucifixion not before it.

We’re weeping. We’re weeping at the door of the tomb…but he’s not in there…. Angels address us, messengers of God, messengers of grace and truth but we don’t hear them, not really. We don’t really know who sent them. Jesus meets us but we think he’s the gardener, our colleague, our partner, our little brother. We are lost in our grief, lost in ourselves. We’ve lost our bearings. We’re out of our minds. The mystery of the resurrection is all around us…talking to us, trying to reach us, asking us why we weep. What a lovely thing! God notices and cares that we are weeping. “Woman, why are you weeping?” ask the angels. “Woman, why are you weeping?” asked Jesus, “Whom do you seek?” “They have taken away my Lord and I don’t know where they have laid him.” They have taken away my life, my future, my hope and I do not know where to find it again.

It’s not too late. Whatever we’ve done or left undone. Whatever has happened to you and me: illness, divorce, the death of a loved one: It’s not too late. Someone may have stolen your childhood through abuse, neglect or simple misunderstanding but God’s got your future. That’s the message of Easter. That is the message. So don’t be afraid. Go to the tomb. Go to the last place you saw him. Go to the place where hope died, where faith was extinguished. Jesus is there. Unexpectedly. Impossibly. Jesus is there with angels of comfort and mercy asking why you weep and calling you by name, your name: your name, my name, a name we hear without guilt, without shame—in our right mind—a name formed in the mouth of God, a name formed in the heart of God, calling us until we recognize him, until we recognize ourselves, until we cry out with Mary: I have seen the Lord!

My Friends, it’s not too late. It is never too late.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia!
Thanks be to God.

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

“What Kind of Easter Story Is This?”

By The Rev. Deacon Christine McCloud

Come Holy Spirit: Touch our minds and think with them; touch our lips and speak with them; touch our hearts and set them on fire with love for you. In the name of the risen Christ who brings us life from the tomb. Amen.

For me, there is nothing better than a good ending to a story. Since I don’t always have the time to read simply for pleasure, when I finally do have the chance, I want a story where all of the loose pieces come together, where all of the problems are resolved and where what finally happens at the end of the story is actually what I would hope would happen. I’ll tell ya, after reading Mark’s Gospel; I was left a little blank… even slightly annoyed. What kind of abrupt ending is this to the most significant event in our Christian history, the heart -- the very heart of our faith?!?!?! Can someone please tell me what this man was thinking?!?!

Unlike the other Gospel stories about the resurrection, Mark gives us no appearance of the risen Christ, no joy or wonder -- just the two Mary’s and Salome, told to “go tell” the good news running away in abject terror! Holy cow! If Mark’s Gospel was being produced for a production studio, there is no doubt in my mind that there would be an immediate demand for a re-write. Actually, there were at least two other re-writes of the ending of Mark’s Gospel -- you can find these re-writes bracketed in your bibles. I’ll be honest, they don’t necessarily help Mark’s story too much, because they’re so different from the actual writings of Mark; you can tell they were written to try to help this Gospel story conform to the later Gospel stories written about the resurrection. So, I guess, if you’re disappointed with this account, you’ll just have to come back tomorrow morning to hear the Gospel of John and his resurrection story! I know you’ll really like that one, but in the meantime… back to Mark.

Here we all are in our sanctuary, so beautifully adorned by our altar guild, our choir and musicians ready to lead us in joyous praise and what we get is Mark’s Hallelujah refrain: “…they said nothing to anyone for they were afraid.” Oh, come on now! What kind of Easter story is this? Where’s the Good News? What kind of Hallelujah refrain is that, huh? Thankfully, we know that the women did “go tell” – someone said something to someone otherwise we wouldn’t be here tonight celebrating.

The truth of the matter is that Mark’s Gospel is one of the earlier accounts written about the resurrection. He was sharing his account of the resurrection for the earliest of Christians just some forty years after the actual event. Mark was actually writing for those who were already living into the joy of the Resurrection life. They already knew that Jesus had been raised from the dead and because of that, they had already accepted and were living, radically transformed lives. But what were they doing about it? Did those who had discovered Jesus had risen realize just how important it was that they remember what Jesus had told them and go tell others?

I guess, when looking at it from this perspective, maybe this retelling of the story isn’t so strange or as disappointing as it might be at first glance. Mark was a man who didn’t like to waste time and he got right to the point: the stone had been rolled away, the women were terrified and the men, Jesus’ disciples were nowhere in sight. The women run off in fear. What was going to happen next?

The one element of mystery in this Gospel is the young man dressed in a white robe who tells the women, “But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” It’s a proclamation Mark fulfills in the writing of his gospel -- with or without a dynamic ending. If we take the time to read the whole of Mark’s Gospel, we find that Mark has said almost everything that he needed to say about ‘what Jesus told them’ right up to the resurrection. He tells us throughout his writings about how the disciples didn’t understand Jesus; that they didn’t really understand the discipleship to which Jesus had called them. So maybe we shouldn’t be too surprised that the women didn’t understand either. Jesus had told the disciples he was going to be put to death and be raised on the third day. It was one thing as an idea. It’s another thing as an experience.

Okay… wait a second. Maybe Mark knew exactly what he was doing when he wrote the story this way. It takes some time, but it gets a little clearer. Could it be that he is telling us that if we really seek to understand the meaning of Jesus, the meaning of the empty tomb, then we need to remember the beginning of the story –- back in Galilee where Jesus preached and taught and healed and announced the coming of God’s kingdom? “He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” Could it be that Mark is saying that in order for us to live the Resurrection life we have to be willing to follow Jesus who has gone on ahead… that we must follow… to the cross to the empty tomb and to understand what happened there we must be willing to remember what he has done for us and to go tell. The kingdom of God comes into our own lives first—often with fear and trembling.

There actually is a resurrection story here. We can’t stay at or in the tomb. But we have to start there. We have to throw off the old, tired, worn and heavy clothing of our pasts that deadens our hope, diminishes our faith and leaves us in a state of mourning. We can’t wait… we can’t afford to wait. To leave our tombs means to start again and to be born again in the spirit of endless love. It means that to those of us who are choked in anger or bitterness, sadness or grief; or those who might be burdened with illness or disease; or those who have been abused in mind, body and spirit; who are embarrassed and ashamed -- we move forward not on our own, but in and with the Resurrected Christ who gives each and everyone of us new life through a love unknown like any other.

This is the Resurrection story: that Jesus Christ was raised from the dead to take us all out of our darkened tombs and to transform us into a new life with Him. Sometimes, we just need to be reminded of this… sometimes, I need to be reminded of this.

I have a friend, a dear friend who constantly reminds me that I am loved… so loved. Who reminds me that I am not alone to face the darkness of my life… that there is a plan so defined by God for my life that all I need to do is to be willing to open myself completely to his infinite love. And so, I want to tell you, just as my friend tells me, just as God tells us… that you are loved… so loved.

On this holy night of nights, we came in from the darkness and into the light. We welcome Scarlett, our newest light of the faith. We remember what God has done for us and we reconfirm for ourselves that we too are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. Paul tells us in his letter to the Romans: “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.”

The stone has been rolled away! We don’t have to do anything by ourselves, because Christ has done it all already through his dying and rising. The tomb is empty! Christ’s love for us removes our doubt, our pain, and sorrow, the shame and anything else that keeps us from new life. It’s gone. There is no power left in these things anymore. We are free! Free to move forward and into the light and love of life. We are free!

Christ has gone ahead of us! He has gone ahead to clear the path so that we can walk forward, tentatively or with assurance, into unknown territory and maybe even into an uncertain future, but always with his love enfolded around us as we make our way. There is an amazing life that God has for each and every one of us. A life not lived in fear and shame, but in and through his power and light.

The stone is gone. The tomb is empty. We are free. And a new life awaits each one of us. But above all else, we are loved… so loved. Go tell!

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Amen.

© 2009 The Rev. Deacon Christine McCloud

Maundy Thursday

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

I have to chuckle to myself, stepping into this pulpit tonight. The irony here is almost laughable, and I have to tell you why. Maundy Thursday is my favorite liturgy of the entire church year. The intimacy of our movements during this service touch every one of our senses – we hear the scripture readings which compel and command us to love one another, we smell and taste together the Eucharist or Last Supper, we hear the sacred silence and see the darkness and desperate stillness which follow the stripping of the altar – all of it, for me, is a present and lived expression of our life with Jesus. It is very real, tangible and experiential. Maundy Thursday wraps us and encircles us, as 21st century Christians, and mysteriously links us to the 1st century disciples, and to Jesus in their midst. I long for this experience every year; even though I know that it comes with a heavy and painful price; and, that price, I know, is paid tomorrow on Good Friday.

All of that being said, [and here’s where my nervous chuckle comes in] there is one part of tonight’s service which I have always kept at a distance. And that centers around the sense of touch in the foot washing ritual. Last year, as a matter of fact, when we participated in the foot washing together with the congregation from St. Andrew’s and Holy Communion, I sat there, startled, yet firmly planted in my pew. My only movement was shifting in my seat to allow those near me, who wanted to participate, to pass by. So don’t think that I’m oblivious to the irony that tonight, here I stand to preach about it.

Foot washing. Somehow, in my gut, I knew it was loaded, far deeper than my surface level embarrassment about the condition of my feet. I always told myself, ‘it’s ok, I have runner’s feet – (you runners out there know what I’m talking about!) blackened toenails and heavy calluses – there’s really no need to subject myself, or the washer, to that.’ But my level of discomfort told me that my skepticism surrounding this sacrament goes far deeper than just the cosmetic appearance of my feet.

So I began to research. I discovered that the act of washing feet goes back to ancient times, an act of hospitality. In Genesis 18:4, for example, Abraham welcomes his trio of holy visitors and says, “Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.” We also know that the ritual was first part of the Temple tradition, and then, thanks to Augustine’s writings in the 4th century, we know that it moved into the early, and still developing, Christian Church. And by the 7th century in Spain, foot washing had become a vital part of the Maundy Thursday liturgy. So here we are tonight, centuries later, still living out our biblical heritage, “bound together with the company of heaven, the apostles and martyrs and the faithful of all ages” and encountering Jesus ourselves in the process.

The mystic Rumi once wrote, “If words do not reach the ear in the chest, nothing happens.” Tonight, we aren’t just witnesses to Jesus sitting at table with his disciples, we are actually entering into an experience with him, rattling that “ear,” both in our individual and communal chests. Jesus speaks to more than just our intellect or our minds today. His humility, though extraordinary, seems pretty clear on one level. One might expect, and in fact, many did expect Jesus, who knew his glory in God, to put on a fine robe as they gathered, and bid others to pay him respect. But instead, Jesus wraps a lowly towel around his waist and washes the disciples’ feet. We learn in 1 Sam 25:41 that the lowest of the low servant positions was the one who washed feet. Jesus turns the established order upside down and he turns our views of self-importance inside out. He lays out a moral example of, what theologians Jean Vanier and Henri Nouwen both call, “downward mobility,” that is, turning away from the things that pull us up on the rungs of social status, and intentionally walking down the path to service and humility. This is what Jesus calls us to do when he instructs us to wash one another’s feet, following his example of humility.

I hear all of this in my head, but this is not what rattles the “ear” of my heart, and this is not why I have resisted participating in the foot washing ritual all these years. My academic self loves to study the intellectual definitions and expressions of humility. And the part of me called to the service of others hears and digests this story loud and clear. But it’s more than that. Jesus washing his disciples’ feet is more than just an exercise in humility! It’s more than teaching us a virtuous way to live! The fuller truth of Jesus’ act in washing the disciples’ feet, which included Judas’ feet as well, is that Jesus’ act was not just a virtue, but the very embodiment of grace. And by participating in this ancient ritual today and sharing in it with one another, we are becoming Christ to each other, offering an experience of God’s grace, amazing evidence of God’s love for us! This ritual offers that assurance to you, and this ritual offers that assurance to me. But here’s the catch, at least for me. . .

As many of you know, I went on a pilgrimage last summer to Taizé, which is an ecumenical monastic community in France. One of the images that struck me with power then, and has stuck with me to this day, even now, almost a year later, was that I was surrounded by Brothers (or monks) who had dedicated their lives to God’s service in the world, and their posture was proof of their devotion and dedication. When taking their vows to the order, and at other times in worship, they would lay prostrate on the floor, kneeling, with both arms spread out, fully extended in both directions. It looked, to me, like Jesus’ frame on the cross, and this was a Brother’s expression of submission, a full offering of self to God. I took that posture seriously, yet knew that I could not offer up such a posture. I could get on my knees, sure. I could even lie down and stretch out one arm, as an offering to God. [demonstrate] I was one arm short, so to speak. To fully extend my second arm into a full posture of surrender to God took more than I was willing to give.

This is where the foot washing comes in. God’s grace is offered to us, through Christ, who knows us completely and fully. It’s about knowing Jesus, and at the same time, it’s about being known. Fully. This was Peter’s protest. “You will never wash my feet,” he says. Peter was willing to offer his confident self. His leadership abilities. His rock-like self-assured qualifications. It was as if he was saying, ‘I’ll offer you some of myself, but not everything. Not all the way to my feet. Not my hidden self, not the one that feared walking on the water, not the one that questioned your teaching, not the one who succumbs so easily to sleep over prayer, and certainly not the one that will deny and then desert you, Jesus.’

Jesus made no distinction, and he instructed his disciples to do the same. Jesus’ radical message of love, in fact Jesus’ new commandment to love, is a love with no distinction, a love which calls us away from the path of increase. There is nothing or no one that Jesus does not love. And that can be scary stuff. Think about it, if we only bring the “clean” parts of ourselves to God, we cannot fully know Christ. “Unless I wash you, you have no share in me,” Jesus says in the Gospel tonight. Christ calls us to follow him, that’s all of us, our dirty feet, the feet with calluses of judgment, of fear, of guilt and pain, and Jesus washes it all clean. My places of shame and doubt, fear and resistance still remain, but they are not hidden from the love and grace of our God.

The definition of a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace.” In the foot washing ritual – in fact, in this very foot washing tonight, Jesus isn’t just being a moral teacher, leading by example a life of humility (though he’s certainly doing that). In addition, Jesus’ virtuous humility is the very expression of grace itself. Maundy Thursday is sacramental, experiential grace, evidence of God’s love for us, all of us, bystanders - believers, betrayers – deserters, everyone. John refers to Jesus in his Gospel as “full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) Jesus offers us this fullness of grace, and this divine action redeems us. Tonight, as in the ages past, we follow Jesus’ commandment to love one another, and God’s powerful and perfect love is made alive in us through one another, a corporate expression of grace. This happens simply because we breathe – regardless of title, gender, race, age, or economic status. The list goes on, but it doesn’t matter, the transformational truth is that God’s grace is offered to all. We “share life with God” which is “free, historical, and graced.” Even me, down to my appalling feet. Even you, down to what ever it is you like to hide. Amen.

© 2009 Mary Davis

Palm Sunday: Reckless Love (Text)

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

(This sermon is also available in video.)

“Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her. May I speak in the name of the Living God.” Amen.

We tend to think of women in the ancient world as powerless, downtrodden and invisible. It’s true that many kinds of power were not available to women because of their sex. But the woman we see in the gospel this morning is anything but powerless. Like Jesus, she is dramatic—reckless with what is most precious, pouring out something of great value which cannot be replaced. Why? She sees Jesus, loves him—gets him, gets who he is and what he’s about to do. Her heart breaks before her alabaster jar does. In a gesture that cannot be explained in rational terms she gives all that she has away, pouring out her love her treasure on Jesus. And he says: you’ll be remembered for this.

The disciples are offended. What lunacy! In what kind of world does THIS make sense! Why has the ointment been wasted? Why wasn’t it used for the poor? It’s criminal! What a waste! Women are so emotional. They’re so sensitive. They’re so over the top. But Jesus understands passion. Jesus understands wildly expansive, expensive acts of love. Jesus understands the meaning of pouring out something infinitely precious in an act of love. It is what he is about to do.

The disciples don’t understand him either. He’s as reckless as SHE is! For gosh sakes everyone is beginning to follow you! You’re reaching the crowds! Did you hear those ‘Hosannas!’ today? It means ‘O save us,’ Jesus! They are waiting for you to ACT! Call on them and they’ll rise up! Don’t throw it all away! But Jesus wasn’t about overturning Rome. There’d only be a new ‘Rome’ to take its place. Oppressors like the poor we will always have with us. Jesus was about overthrowing everything that gets in the way of God but the time of curing surface symptoms was over. He was going after sin and death itself.

Jesus approaches the walled city of Jerusalem on Palm Sunday the way he approaches the walled cities of our own hearts: Making a claim to be a king. Reminding the people of Zechariah’s prophesy: Lo, your king will come to you, lowly, riding on a donkey. It’s prophetic performance art and the crowd loves it—throwing their coats on this path and plucking palm branches to wave in the air. We’re all so glad he’s here! Victory is ours! Hosanna in the highest! We say it at every Eucharist: Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.

But the path doesn’t lead where we thought it would. He doesn’t do what we thought he’d do. What did he mean: this is my body? This is my blood over the bread and wine at supper? What did he mean letting Judas betray him like that, letting the guards take him, waiting for it to happen, really. This is NOT what we had in mind! What on earth is he doing? He doesn’t mean to break our enemies but to break our hearts, to break them open until we want to break open the alabaster jars that hold our treasure and pour it out in extravagant love in his name on the world God so loves. We didn’t sign on for this! What a reckless, crazy thing to do! No way! No way! We don’t want to die! We don’t want this God’s agenda! We don’t want transformation! We don’t want life at this price.

Crucify him! Crucify him! The light is hurting my eyes.

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Palm Sunday: Reckless Love (Video)

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

(This sermon is also available in text.)



© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven