True story--Easter 2023
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale
April 9, 2023—Easter Sunday, Year A
Jeremiah 31:1-6; Matthew 28:1-10
It’s all about the stories.
We human beings make sense of our lives through stories. It has ever been so. We seek to understand the world around us, and so we tell stories about why the sun rises and sets, and where all the different kinds of animals came from. We struggle with fears about the world, and also long for beauty and security, and so we tell fairy tales to warn our children about the dangers, while also holding out promise.
The stories we tell … the stories each culture tells … describe what we wonder about and what we refuse to face; describe what we value and what we fear; what we long to be and what we cannot admit to. As such, our stories reveal the best and the worst of us.
Either way, or something in between, the stories we build our lives around shape us. They inform our reactions to the events of our lives, and they inspire our actions for the future.
Religion, from the dawn of time, has its roots in this work of story-telling. Yes, some would argue that the purpose of religion is the making of rules, and indeed, there is an element of “Do this” and “Seriously, don’t do that” to any religious system. But for the most part, judicial systems do a better job of laying out prohibitions.
The real strength of any religion, is how true its stories are.
Do those stories help us to make sense of our lives? Do they acknowledge the full range of human experience, recognizing all the suffering, doubt, confusion, and joy? Do the stories allow us to fail and then try again? Do they include the likelihood of long spells where we are lost, and promise the possibility of being found again? Do they understand the deep and difficult realities of both life and death?
Are they, in a word, TRUE?
If not, they are pointless. If they speak only of light and life and prosperity, they are as useless to us as if they speak only of “do this” and “don’t do that.”
The stories need to help us make sense of all of it: the whole breadth and depth of human experience. Which is where Holy Week, to be honest, excels. Because Holy Week is unflinching in its honesty, and bottomless in its profundity. It takes us places that we recognize, and helps us admit things that we were afraid to acknowledge. Which means that the hope, when it comes, has been well-earned.
Palm Sunday starts it off. There’s a lot in there, as we begin with the celebration and the Hosannas, and so quickly move to the trial and crucifixion. There’s truth there, about the way life can get turned on its head, just like that.
Maundy Thursday brings us to the Last Supper, the last time Jesus and all his disciples gather together before the crucifixion. If we allow ourselves to enter the story, we find ourselves sitting around a table with a family that isn’t by blood, but also isn’t exactly by choice. No way you would have chosen all these people. Honestly, you’re not really sure why JESUS chose all these people!
There are (of course there are!) the people vying for “favorite child” status, wanting to prove how brilliant and special they are. And there are the bumblers, the ones who don’t quite get it right but keep on trying and you kind of love them for that (and really love Jesus, for how much he is able to love and value them). And there are the know-it-alls, and the doubters, and the challengers. Which, honestly, if you think about it, is actually really … great. Because if they all belong here, then so do you.
But you don’t really know what to make of the betrayer. The one (and you secretly suspect who it is) that Jesus knows will hand him over to the authorities tonight. That person is here too, and you hate that. Hate that you have to sit here with someone who thinks SO wrong, and who would do such terrible things.
And yet … here you are, eating at table. Breaking bread and sharing it. After Jesus has washed EVERYONE’s feet, demonstrating the way in which we should love each other. Even the despicable parts of “each other.” And somehow, there is beauty in this. In sharing a meal with such a weird, lovely, awful, astonishing family.
After that, comes Good Friday, in which the story of Jesus asks us to stare unflinchingly into the reality of pain and suffering. They are inevitable in this life. And any religion or political leader who promises you otherwise is actually making some kind of deal with Death, demanding someone else’s pain and death instead of yours (or, more likely, instead of theirs). The powers that be put Jesus to death, in an attempt to preserve their own power. We watch as it happens—as we see it happen so often in this world—and we are tempted to lose hope, to acknowledge that the powers of this world have won. That violence and retribution will always win.
But if we stand there long enough. If we watch and listen to what Jesus says and does … how he chooses to go through all of it, rather than shed his humanity and “save himself” as others urge him to do … we might just see the power in what he does. The power of allowing an unjust system to torture and kill you, in order to bear witness to their injustice.
Which brings us to Holy Saturday. The between time. When Jesus is in the tomb, but the power and possibility of resurrection hang in the air. Because we know how the story continues, but it isn’t here yet.
And honestly, that’s pretty much what Easter feels like, to me. It’s not that I don’t believe in the resurrection. I believe, down in my bones, in the truth of resurrection. That God raised Jesus from the dead. That God raises EVERYTHING from the dead, because God is life and promise and possibility and creation. Then, and now, and forever, Amen.
But as we live in the continuing unfolding of time. As we continue in a world in which suffering and pain are inevitable, and life comes in the midst of that, and beauty shines because of the contrast … I have always been drawn to the brave and hopeful “not quite yet” of Holy Saturday. For me, it’s easier to take hold of than the full bright and shiny. It’s the grippy edges, if you wish, of resurrection.
Jan Richardson, unsurprisingly, says it better than I could, in a blessing called “The Art of Enduring” (Circle of Grace, p. 148ff.).
This blessing can wait as long as you can.
Longer.
This blessing began eons ago
and knows the art of enduring.
This blessing has passed through ages and generations,
witnessed the turning of centuries,
weathered the spiraling of history.
This blessing is in no rush.
This blessing will plant itself by your door.
This blessing will keep vigil and chant prayers.
This blessing will bring a friend for company.
This blessing will pack a lunch and a thermos of coffee.
This blessing will bide its sweet time
until it hears the beginning of breath,
the stirring of limbs,
the stretching, reaching,
rising
of what had lain dead within you and is ready
to return.
My friends, Christ is risen, and God has declared Herself on the side of justice and hope and everlasting, abundant Life! And this story, that admits to all that is difficult in you and in this life that we are living, promises that there is newness and possibility ahead for everything in this world. Including you.
Because he rose. And so will we. Alleluia, Amen!