Sermon of April 12, 2009 [Easter]

WHY WE NEED EASTER NOW MORE THAN EVER

I Corinthians 15:1-22              Mark 16:1-8

     Sermon from April 12, 2009 (Easter)

 

 

            Let me begin by saying a “Blessed Easter” to you all.  Let no chill in the air, no darkness of circumstance, no doubt of mind nor heaviness of heart, no familiarity with Easters past, deprive us of this day’s juice and joy.  Christ’s resurrection turned the despair of the disciples into triumph.  So let it be with us.  Christ is risen!  He is risen indeed!  Poet George Herbert wrote:

                        What Adam had, and forfeited for all,

                        Christ keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall.

 

            All thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through Jesus Christ our Lord!

 

            The disciples needed Easter.  With the crucifixion of Jesus they went into seclusion — to rest, we may assume; as well as to recover from the disappointment of Jesus’ brutal death, to reflect on their own complicity and cowardice, and to begin thinking about their futures.  The transformation of the disciples from this, from a ragtag gang of disheartened, dispirited losers (or so the world regarded them, and so they thought of themselves), skulking in the shadows, to a forceful, enthusiastic band of believers poised to go forth into all the world with the Gospel, this is the most remarkable makeover in human history, and can be explained only by the real-life and life-altering power of the resurrection.   

 

This is the point the Apostle Paul eagerly makes in the passage read from I Corinthians, Chapter 15.  It’s of “first importance,” he writes, that you understand what happened:  that Christ “was raised on the third day,” that this was not a figure of speechy, not figment of someone’s overheated imagination nor mere wishful thinking, but he actually appeared — to his followers first, and then to many others, “more than five hundred at one time, most of whom are still alive.”  If this were not so, then our faith would be vain and futile, a ludicrous, even laughable conceit.  “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead,” he declares.  And this fact unleashes the greatest force imaginable.  Easter-power transformed the disciples, and transformed disciples transformed the world. 

 

            But Easter wasn’t needed only back then.  It’s needed now, as well.    God knows, we need Easter now more than ever.  Because, now more than ever, it looks and feels like a Good Friday world.   Wars and rumors of wars persist.  Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, North Korea, Darfur, pirates on the seas and terrorists on land, it’s a battered and broken old world in which we live.  Hunger persists.  So do corruption and greed.  Recession and recession-anxiety darken the atmosphere, while bitter debate concerning causes and solutions fill the air.  Natural catastrophes, like last week’s earthquake in Italy, continue to strike, reminding us that for all the beauty of the earth, yet, in the words of singer Neco Case, “never turn your back on mother earth.”  And to this litany of the world’s problems, each of us may add burdens we’re carrying in our own lives. 

 

            So if Easter is to transmit truth and power, it must come not as a tired religious ritual from earlier times, whose meaning is too ancient or mythic to address our present predicament.  Rather, we need Easter now more than ever. 

 

How does Easter meet this present need?   I’d like to begin by saying a word or two about death, because death is the one problem all humans face, but which no human can solve, and which Easter most clearly and powerfully addresses.  Easter declares, and in the resurrection of Jesus Christ demonstrates, that death is not final.  Christ being raised from death was not intended by God as a singular display of divine power and might.  Rather, the witness of scripture is that Christ’s victory over death prefigures our own.  “As all die in Adam,” it is written, “so all will be made alive in Christ.”

 

To believe this inexpressibly wonderful promise, to believe that in Jesus Christ the doors of eternal life are sprung open, to believe this with our minds, and beyond belief, to trust it with our hearts, requires a great leap of faith.  It’s implausible.  It goes against what we know concerning space, time, and matter.  It eludes commonsense. 

 

And because scripture itself puts-forth so many different ideas about heaven, and so many different images of heaven, we may find ourselves with more questions than answers.  Maybe it’s best not to spiritually sweat the details.  In Walter Isaacson’s biography of Albert Einstein, he quotes Einstein’s wife Elsa, that her husband never drove a car because, she explained:  “It was too complicated for him.”  Quantum physics and relativity theory he “got,” but driving a car was “too complicated.”  There’s something to be said, though, for staying focused on the big picture, on the things that really matter.  When we try to overanalyze heaven, pressing for specifications that God does not intend for us to know (or they’d be in scripture), the whole idea of it may become too complicated and unbelievable.  Better to focus on the big picture, to trust the promise, to rest in the blessed assurance that, as scripture declares, “when this earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with human hands, eternal in the heavens” (2 Cor. 5:1).

 

The prospect of death continues to be unsettling, of course.  Even for those of strong and steady faith, it may evoke worry and anxiety, perhaps even fear.  Our natural instincts are to hold on to life, and these are good instincts, survival instincts that God has placed within us.  But because of Easter, we know that when the time comes, we may let go.

 

Poet Rosanna Warren has crafted one of my favorites, titled simply, “Simile,” concerning the death of her mother.   It goes:

            As when her friend the crack Austrian skier, in the story

            she often told us, had to face

            his first Olympic ski jump and, from

            the starting ramp over the chute that plunged

            so vertiginously its bottom lip

            disappeared from view, gazed

            on a horizon of Alps that swam and dandled around him

            like toy boats in a bathtub, and he could not

            for all his iron determination,

            training, and courage

            ungrip his fingers from the railings of the starting gate, so that

            his teammates had to join in prying

            up, finger by finger, his hands

            to free him, so

            facing death, my

            mother gripped the bed rails but still

            stared straight ahead –  and

            who was it, finally,

            who loosened

            her hands?              (The New Yorker, April 10, 2000, p. 46)

 

When our earthly life is over, we may permit the Holy Spirit to set our eyes on the horizon, to loosen our hands and our hold on this earthly life, and to deliver us into the promise of eternal life.

 

This Easter-outlook on death —  that we may face death with confidence, poise and peace — transforms our attitudes toward life, as well, and amends how we choose to live.   John Buchanan, my colleague at Fourth Presbyterian in Chicago, writes:

            People who know the resurrection happened, or who choose

            to trust in resurrection, live in a wholly new world where death

            has no power.

 

When the message of God’s eternal kingdom is accepted in the heart of the believer, then God becomes king in the heart of the believer now.   This changes everything!  How can it not? 

 

And what this battered and broken old world in which we live most needs, now more than ever, are Christians who are not Christians in name and ritual alone, but who are truly Easter-people – authentic and ardent, courageous, and caring, helpful and hopeful; people in whose hearts Christ is king.

 

Easter declares that we are here to love others, especially those whom we may find unlovable, or difficult to love, as in Jesus Christ God first loved us, unworthy though we were, and are; and Easter declares that we are here to be merciful to others, as in Jesus Christ God has forgiven us.

 

Easter declares that we are to live boldly, to take risks, to be daring more than devout, and passionate more than pious, for as has been said, the art of life is to die young as late as possible.

 

Easter declares that we are to set our minds on true and worthy things that last forever; to devote our days to prayer and praise and acts of service in the world; and to expend this life we have been given on holy and excellent purposes that will outlast it.

 

So, a blessed Easter to you; and a joyful Easter, as well, and an Easter that infuses you with renewed passion and commitment, and all strength in believing.

 

Poet Anne Sexton writes:

            There is hope.

            There is hope everywhere.

            Today God gives milk

            and I have the pail.         (from The Awful Rowing Toward God)

 

All thanks be to God that out of the overflowing abundance of his love, we receive all we need, and much more besides.

 

 

 

 

 

Sermon from March 29, 2009

WEDONTDOTHAT

                                    Jeremiah 31:31-34                     John 12:20-36

 Sermon from March 29, 2009

 

            For religion to be worth anything, it ought to help a person make decisions about how to live.  You’ve heard the old expression about a religious person, that he’s so heavenly-minded he’s no earthly good.  But this cannot, must not, be so.  Religion at its best not only elevates the human spirit heavenward, but somehow brings heaven to earth, as well, bringing eternal wisdom to the challenges and choices we face everyday.

 

Decisions, decisions, decisions.  We’re making decisions all the time, it seems.

 

There are small decisions, decisions that don’t really matter in the larger scheme of things but which we’re called-upon to decide, anyway.  What shall I wear today?  Which number shall I put in this Sudoku box?  What shall I read next?

 

Then there are urgent decisions, decisions that may or may not be important, but either way, have to be made quickly.  Shall I run that yellow light or not?  Shall I say what I really think or not?  Shall I raise my hand and volunteer or not?  Maybe for some of you, earlier today:  shall I go to church or not?

 

And, of course, there are also decisions that are of first importance, decisions around which the story of our lives is told.  Should we get married, or at the other end of things, divorced, or at least go our separate ways?  Should I continue in this course of study, or in this job or career, or try another?  Should I take a stand on behalf of goodness, or mind my own business; speak the truth or live a lie; do what is right or go along with everyone else?   

 

Decisions, decisions, decisions.  We make one decision and the next one comes along immediately.  The irony is that the one decision it seems we cannot make is the decision to face no more decisions.

 

And I’m thinking that there are alot more decisions to be made these days than in former times, because there are so many more choices.  When I was a kid there were 10, maybe 12, kinds of breakfast cereals from which to choose.  Industry experts say there are now over 300.  There used to be three television networks, with an additional independent station or two in the bigger markets.  Now Comcast, the nation’s largest cable provider, offers nearly 1000 channels.  Kathleen Vohs, professor of marketing at the University of Minnesota, has done the math, and calculates that Starbucks offers consumers 87,000 drink combinations.  (I believe this, because I always seem to get stuck behind someone who’s mulling-over 86,000 of them)   Someone recently inventoried the shampoo aisle and found different products for each of the following conditions:  blond,

colored, curly, damaged, dry, fine, frizzy, greasy, lifeless, oily, permed, thin, tired, treated, unmanageable and wavy.

 

These may seem like mere playful examples, but in truth making decisions all the time, even about little things, can be exhausting.  In his book The Paradox of Choice:  Why More is Less, psychologist Barry Schwartz presents research showing that “the mere act of thinking about whether you prefer A or B tires you out,” he writes.  And he proposes that one of three things is likely to occur when people have too many decisions to make:  they end-up making hurried and poor decisions; or they’re dissatisfied with the decisions they make, haunted by the idea that somewhere out there is something better; or they end-up becoming paralyzed, and deciding nothing at all. 

 

What’s true about cereal, television, coffee and shampoo is also true about decisions concerning religion, faith and values, and these are infinitely more important, of course.  You can choose what to believe or not to believe.  You can choose the god, or the kind of god, you want; or, choose no god at all.  You can decide to live for yourself or for others.  You can decide to devote yourself to personal ends or to great purposes that will outlive you.  You can decide to be cautious or daring, anxious or trusting, compliant or bold; to go along with the ways of the world or follow a higher calling; to accept packaged religion or explore what real contact with the living God might be.

 

The teaching of scripture is that what’s most needed isn’t the ability to keep making the right decisions, but to so order and arrange one’s life that it becomes second-nature what the Lord requires of us.  To do good becomes something that’s natural.  It’s a habit.  It’s simply who we are.  On the other hand, if we’re constantly trying to decide all the time what to do — decisions, decisions, decisions; if we’re constantly making decisions under the stress and strain of the moment, then we shall decide wrongly some of the time, maybe much of the time.   

 

The old movie City Slickers was on last night.  I love the character Curly, for which Jack Palance won an Academy Award.  Recall Curly’s philosophy of life:  that there’s one thing that’s important in life, just one thing. 

“What is that one thing?” the Billy Crystal character asks. 

“That’s for you to figure out,” Curly answers. 

 

He’s right, isn’t he?  The key to life is to discover the one thing that’s the key to life.  Once you know what that one thing is, then you’re no longer conflicted and undecided, anxious and worried about a great many things, facing decisions, decisions, decisions.

 

In the Lord’s Prayer Jesus taught us to pray, not “make us strong against temptation,” but rather “lead us not into temptation.”  He knew that if we’re struggling constantly against temptation, trying to decide what to do, we’ll lose the struggle much of the time.  Better so to order and arrange one’s life that temptation doesn’t even enter it.  It’s by nurturing a Christ-like spirit that we come to know the good and to do it.

 

This is the point we overhear Jesus straining to make in the passage before us this morning.  The teachings of Jesus here were triggered by some Greeks who found themselves in Jerusalem during Passover.  No doubt they’d gotten caught-up in the hubbub and controversy swirling around Jesus and intensifying.  They approached one of the disciples, Philip, and asked for an opportunity to meet and chat with Jesus.  But when their request reached him, Jesus said, “no,” it’s too late for that sort of thing.  The time for theological curiosity and inquiry has passed.  Rather, “the hour has come” for him to die, and for people to decide who they are, and where they stand, in relation to him.

 

Jesus then puts forth a string of metaphors to characterize the moment.    Unless a seed dies, losing its seed-ness, it cannot germinate and bring forth new life.  Unless a servant gives-up the need to be in-charge, and willingly follows the worthy master, then the goal cannot be achieved.  Unless the troubled soul accepts the will of God, then life is doomed to anguish without end.  Unless a person takes advantage of the light while it shines, then he/she will be left stumbling in the darkness.  Each of these metaphors may be lifted-up and studied individually, but it’s their collective force that impresses:  that Jesus is prepared by character and commitment to face this hour; how about you?  Are you, like the Greeks in this story, vaguely interested in learning more about religion?  Or, are you prepared by character and commitment to decide to follow Jesus Christ, to follow him, and to live for him? 

 

Gunter Grass is an excellent German writer.  His works are so universally acclaimed, especially the novel The Tin Drum, that in 1999 he was awarded a Nobel Prize for Literature.  In 1944 Grass was 16 years old.  Like all German teens he was drafted into the Nazi Youth auxiliary, a force made up of boys too young to fight in the war but deployed to help in other ways.  They learned to march, to clean and fire guns, to and to watch the skies for incoming bombers.  They sat through lectures on military tactics, German history and the necessity of making the world free of Jews.  But what Grass most remembers from those years, the thing that “has never left me,” he writes, was a teen his own age, who refused to participate, but would say simply, “We don’t do that.”  Grass recalls:

                        He stuck to the plural.  In a voice neither loud nor

                        soft, he pronounced what he and his refused to do.

                        Four words fusing into one:  Wedontdothat.

 

This boy, whose name Grass has forgotten, was enormously frustrating to those in charge.  He was tall, blond and blue-eyed, “the epitome” of Nordic racial purity, Grass remarks.  He was also a remarkable athlete.  But he was insubordinate.  Although friendly, good-natured and always ready to help in ordinary things, he refused to take part in anything related to the Nazi ideology and war effort, dismissing it with “wedontdothat.”  The other boys teased him at first.  The teasing hardened into serious hazing, and after awhile beatings.  Always, no matter how harsh he was beaten, the boy would repeat the catchword, “wedontdothat.”  After awhile the teasing, the hazing and the beatings stopped, replaced by admiration and respect.  “His behavior transformed us,” Grass writes.  The others began questioning their own actions, and the cause for which they’d been enlisted, raising doubts about everything they were doing,  “Wedontdothat.”  “Was it all as simple as that?” Grass wonders.  Just, “wedontdothat”?  Then one day the boy disappeared.  His locker was cleared out.  He was never heard of or heard from again.  When asked about him, the drill instructor snapped:  “He was a Bible nut.”

 

Maybe this is what it means to be “a Bible nut”:  to insist simply that life isn’t necessarily as complicated as we may make it out to be, that there are some things we do as followers of Jesus Christ, and some things we don’t do.  You can tease me.  You can haze me.  You can beat me.  You can get rid of me.  But these things won’t change me, because I’m not always trying to figure-out and decide what to do next.   I know who I am and whose I am, and I know what the Lord requires of me.

 

This is the ideal Jeremiah had in mind when he imagined what he called “a new covenant,” when God’s law is written on the heart, so that the people of God know the will of God naturally and intuitively.  They don’t even have to think about it.  It shapes and defines their character.

 

Emerson wrote: “Character is higher than intellect.  A great soul will be strong to live as well as to think.”

 

This is what we seek:  a character so shaped and braced after the model of Jesus Christ that we are not tossed back-and-forth by every wind of change, nor dazzled by novelty, nor beguiled either by the world’s wisdom or by the world’s foolishness masquerading as wisdom.   As we live in Christ, and as he dwells in us, we become strong to live faithfully and boldly each day, strong to respond to the challenge of discipleship, and strong to face eternity with confidence, poise and peace.

 

 

[The Gunter Grass reference is from “How I Spent the War,” in The New Yorker,

June 4, 2007, pgs. 67-81)