A few years back as I completed the Direct Commission Officer Indoctrination Course in Newport, RI, I had the opportunity to tour the oldest ship still afloat: The USS Constitution. Old Ironsides, as she is also known, was launched in 1797. She is a wooden, three-masted heavy frigate – one of the six original frigates in the US Navy. I toured the ship and viewed the tight quarters, the rope systems that were used (blind) below deck to steer the ship, and the other features and compartments. As we made our way down to the gunpowder compartment, the sailor giving us our tour stopped us and told us we were about to touch one of the only remaining original – unrepaired pieces of the ship. We set foot on a piece of wood about two feet wide right outside the gunpowder compartment. It didn’t look like much…but it was the keel of the ship that we were standing on. It’s the part of the ship that is least visible but most important. It is the backbone of the ship. Without it none of the rest of the ship would be held together. A ship with holes in the hull might very well sink, but were it brought to the surface, it could be repaired and put back out to sea. A ship with a broken keel…you’d have to build a whole new ship.
I’ve thought a lot about that moment spent standing on the keel of that old ship. There was something profound about it; something I think that we can carry with us today. We are living in a time and space when a lot of things are trying to punch holes in our hulls. This virus has so many implications for how we live, and what life will look like going forward. It threatens our health and our lives as an infectious disease, but it also threatens our economy, our livelihood, and in many ways our very identity. It is one of those moments in time that we will always remember. Years later someone will ask us where we were when the Covid pandemic hit and we will all be able to say exactly where we were. More than that, we will be taken back and experience all of the feelings we are currently experiencing all over again. There is so much threatening our hulls, but some of those holes will be able to be repaired. But what about our keels? What is your backbone? What is the foundational structure upon which your entire being is built? Another way to ask that question is, what is your identity based upon? For so much of my life, I have identified myself by what I do: student, daughter, sister, chaplain, athletic trainer, pastor, sailor, athlete, etc. All of those things are part of my identity, but when I stop to think about the backbone of my identity, I’m forced to reckon with the fact that none of those things are really the backbone of my identity, and if they are, I’m in for a world of trouble…because all of those things by which I identify myself are transient things. They are temporary. If I were to make any one of those things my backbone and were it to be taken away, on what would I have to stand? The more I’ve thought about it, the more I have realized that my identity, my very livelihood, is my faith in God. If my Keel is the Creator of the universe – the one who ordered the stars and planets into orbit, who made all life and called it good – then I can live in these days with hope, even if my hull (body) is to be destroyed. That is the beauty of faith. When our faith forms the backbone of our identities, even when things get hard, even when we are afraid, even when we don’t know what is going to happen or how things are going to turn out, the one thing we can rest assured of is that God is God. God loves us more than we can imagine; God crafted each of us in God’s own image and claims us as God’s own beloved children. Now that is a foundation on which I can stand. Like the keel of Old Ironsides, it stands the test of time. So as we continue on this CoVID journey, may we remember the foundation on which we are built. May we call to mind the keel of our being and find comfort in the one who is love. God be with you, Rev. Amy Ruhf
1 Comment
This week the Session welcomed 11 new members to our congregation, our Confirmation Class of 2020. As their teacher and fellow traveler, I journeyed together with them since we began in September, always asking questions on our quest to discover what it means to be a disciple of Christ and a member of this congregation.
I invited them to answer our Big Ten Questions, which are some of the key questions that bind us together as fellow travelers on this journey. They are: Who is Jesus? Describe his relationship in your life. What is worship? Why do we worship God? What does the Bible reveal to us? What does it say about who God is? What is communion? Why do we take communion together? What is a favorite Bible verse (or story) of yours? What does it mean to you? What is grace? Why is it important? What is a Messiah(Savior)? Why do we need one? What does the word Presbyterian mean? Who are the leaders of the Presbyterian church? What was your favorite thing you learned in confirmation class this year? I want to join First Presbyterian Church because… They came up with some creative responses. Who is Jesus? The one who is immune to sin. What does the Bible say about God? God is all-knowing and all being. What is grace? Grace is Jesus’ superpower. Why do we need a Messiah? To break the cycle of violence. Why do you want to join First Pres? I want to be able to help people; this church helps people a lot. How might you answer some of these questions? Remember: the quest is in the question, and we are fellow companions on this journey of faith. Peace, Rev. Evans McGowan Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. (1 Peter 4:12-13)
In October of my first year in seminary in New Jersey, an arsonist came through parts of Florida, setting churches ablaze. On October 21, he came to my hometown, Lake City, Florida, and to my home church, First Presbyterian Church. He torched the sanctuary and part of the educational building, just as he’d done with other churches in the area. Our church was decimated. My mom called me with the news. I burst into tears. She mailed me the newspaper articles with photos, and when I opened them, the tears fell hard again. It was devastating. I had spent ten years of my life in Sunday School class there, memorizing the order of the Bible’s great books and winning ribbons for perfect attendance, sitting in a circle on couches with my middle and high school friends and our cool youth pastor, leading worship from the sanctuary and singing in the choir. My pastor’s father had been the Senior Minister there for 30 years, and then his son for the next 30. The Montgomery family had shaped our town deeply and forever — even today there are many streets and buildings named after those kind and holy folks. My pastor’s wife was my piano teacher and I gave my Senior piano recital in the church’s Social Hall. It was in those old wooden pews where I sat with my dad every Sunday, trying to keep him from falling asleep. It was where my sister got married to her husband, me standing up with her as her maid of honor. A schizophrenic drifter was eventually — the following February — found guilty of setting 16 churches on fire over a 3-month period. There was no reason ever stated, no pattern to what he did, no beef he had to grind with God or religious folks. He was just sick. Though I was far away from Florida that next Sunday, unable to fly home to be with our family of faith, I was certainly with my fellow members in spirit the next Sunday morning when they gathered on the grounds, far away from the building, huddled in a corner of the parking lot, still close enough to see the ashes still smoldering, and breathe in the smoky air. It was the only time they gathered there before moving to an out-of-business tuxedo rental shop in our local mall. The first time I preached for my home congregation after a few seminary classes, it was in that makeshift chapel where a collective of men’s fancy suits once hung. It was church at the mall — and a place they would call home for 2 years. But as they gathered there, that first Sunday after the fire, my mom told me that the Rev. Dr. Montgomery had preached on the passage above from 1 Peter. “Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you.” I remember asking myself whether I thought God sent a fire to test our community, to test Christians, to sharpen our faith. Hogwash. I didn’t believe that for a second. But the passage was compelling, and it did speak truth. For we were being tested by the fire, and we would be for several years — trying to keep our staff active and engaged with members, raising funds to get us beyond the insurance money that would rebuild the bricks and mortar, caring for those heartbroken by our loss. Baptisms, weddings, and funerals at the mall were challenging, for sure, and they required creativity in our celebrations of life and death. But God wasn’t the one testing us. The fire tested us. One man’s mental illness and the lack of the resources and care he needed tested us. And by sticking together, hearts and hands united, justice and mercy joining hands, he went to jail and got treatment. We rebuilt. Two years later, I preached just after my graduation from seminary and entered ordained ministry. By then, I knew — ministry would be fraught with pain and peril, and that the church had great value in times of struggle. Pastors and preachers are called to speak to our hearts in a time of need, to uplift, to support, and to guide. When things are good, when life is calm, when the economy is great, when Americans unite around common moral themes and spiritual values, when there is no pandemic — we coast a bit. But when we are in pain, and when we are facing our greatest trials — we best be ready to practice what we preach. We must be sure of what we hold in our hearts — faith in a time of trial, the ability to accept uncertainty and doubt, the willingness to embrace questions and simply say, multiple times, “I do not know, but God is here, and we are loved.” Annie Dillard, American non-fiction writer and novelist, turns 75 on April 30, the same day my newest granddaughter turns 1. The author of another blog posting wrote this about her — “You’ll likely know her for her memoir of her time living along a creek in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, won the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction in 1975. In this masterful book, Annie wove first-hand observations and marvelous facts about the natural world with reflections on theology and literature. Here’s how the book begins: “I live by a creek, Tinker Creek, in a valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. An anchorite’s hermitage is called an anchor-hold; some anchor-holds were simple sheds clamped to the side of a church like a barnacle or a rock. I think of this house clamped to the side of Tinker Creek as an anchor-hold. It holds me at anchor to the rock bottom of the creek itself and keeps me steadied in the current, as a sea anchor does, facing the stream of light pouring down. It’s a good place to live; there’s a lot to think about. But here’s the kicker: Dillard decided to omit from her masterpiece several things about her life, including the fact that she lived in the house with her husband (a writing professor), and that the house wasn’t a Walden-in-the-wilderness, much less a hermitage, but rather was located in a conventional suburban development in Roanoke, with a backyard that sloped down to a little stream. Many reviewers (and readers) mistakenly assumed Dillard wrote while living alone in a remote cabin in the woods. In the end, this isn’t sleight-of-hand so much as a splendid act of imagination: through Dillard’s eyes, we can see how “wilderness” - and the quality of mind wilderness can provide - is actually all around us, even in suburbia!” Friends, our anchor-hold is not available to us just now, not in the same way. And boy, are we in a wilderness time, one that looks different from any woods we’ve been in before. But like Annie, it is up to our imagination to bring church alive — in our hearts, in our community, on our screens, out in nature. We need our splendid imaginations to remember our anchor-hold of First Pres, but also to realize we are not tethered to a building, sanctuary, or time or day of worship. Imagine with me what church will look like for months, most likely, to come. Remain open in your mind and your heart and your spirit. Imagine. That’s what will help us when life does begin to take baby steps towards a new normal. The Coronavirus is testing us. Most days I don’t feel much like rejoicing about it, but I do rejoice in this. Our Lord who suffered, suffers with us, and understands. Our Lord who died and rose, will see us to rise someday from the ashes of this virus. Our Lord who reigns in power for us empowers us to grow, to learn, to endure, and despite the suffering we see and know, even to rejoice. Peace be with you, Rev. Melissa Anne Rogers Let me begin this post with a question. How are you caring for yourself? What things are you doing to find joy; to keep hope alive? The other day I was running through the Arb, admiring the signs that spring is coming. I watched for the many species of birds that I heard, hoping to catch a glimpse of them as I jogged by. I felt the warmth of the March sun on my back despite the chill in the air and was reminded that seasons change. I looked at the underbrush’s green hue and the flowers blooming; signs of life. It was the best I had felt in days, maybe even weeks – and not just because of the endorphins that accompany exercise. That morning I felt as though my burdens were not quite so heavy, that my cares were not weighing me down as they had been. I went home and watched out my sliding door as the ducks swam on the pond right outside. I observed a pair of Canadian Geese – new neighbors coming to my pond to nest - and a pair of Common Goldeneye diving to the depths and then resurfacing. I listened to my cat playfully chatter at the birds in the feeder. I felt at peace. And not only did I feel at peace, but I felt joy.
Living in these uncertain times can be really challenging. We feel unsettled. We want answers. We want to know what is happening elsewhere so we can be prepared for what might come our way. We tune into the news almost every hour that we’re awake. We read article after article looking for some new development. The media is keeping a running loop of the state of things. In fact in some ways we are entranced by what they are putting before our eyes. It reminds me of how things were back in the Philadelphia area after 9/11/2001. Living less than 100 miles from NYC everyone in my area knew at least one person who died in the towers. The fear and anxiety in that region of the country was so thick, it would break the knife were you to try to cut it. Life was put on hold. We were all glued to our television screens watching time and again as planes flew into the north tower and then the towers collapsed. We relived those moments every waking minute of every day. We were stuck. I think that we are at risk of a similar thing happening right now. So let me ask a few questions. First, what are you getting from watching the constant stream of news media surrounding CoVID-19? We are getting something from it, because if we weren’t, we would stop watching. Chemically there is a lot happening in the brain when we continually flood it with things that make us fearful and anxious. Our bodies go on hyperdrive releasing powerful hormones and chemicals. While we are getting some information, I wonder, what are we losing – that is, what is the constant flood of media input taking from us? I can’t answer that for you, but for me, constantly watching or reading steals my joy. It makes me a prisoner to fear, and a slave to the media outlets. It even, in some ways, prevents me from believing in God’s goodness. It can be hard to believe in the power of the resurrection when surrounded by so much uncertainty, pain and hardship. The other day as I ran through the Arb, I broke the loop. Changing perspectives, even if for a short while, can be incredibly powerful. As someone with a deep connection to the created order, I found that just being outside in God’s creation enabled me to stop the tapes running through my mind; the tapes imprisoning me to my fear. For that one day, I was free. And what I learned from that experience was that I could take back my life and free myself of the feedback loop every day. I had agency. I could choose how much power I would give fear and anxiety. I could still be informed, in fact I need to be, but being informed doesn’t mean that I need to be slave to my television or internet. So now, when I don’t know what else to do, when I feel disconnected, when I feel alone, rather than turn on my television or going out to the internet to see what the latest development is, I go for a walk, or call a friend or family member, or pick up a book that I’ve been wanting to read. Sheltering in place for a month now, it sometimes feels as though time has stood still. It’s almost like we are waiting for things to go back to the way they were. The reality is, things won’t go back to exactly the way they were before all of this happened. They can’t. Things will be different because we are different. We may not realize it yet, but we have all changed. Life has changed. But the one thing that has not changed, the one thing that remains constant is God’s love for God’s creations, and each of us is one of those masterpieces crafted and created by God. As I’ve spent time in nature these past few weeks, I am reminded time and again of God’s love not just for me, but for the smallest of insects, the rocks, the trees, the soil, the animals. All are precious. All are loved. And for me, that was all I needed to know. It was all I needed to break the feedback loop – to know that I am connected to all of God’s creatures and I am loved. This week, may you find a way to break your own feedback loops, take back your joy, and hope in the God who loves you beyond measure. Try something new, read something you’ve never had time to read, go for a walk and notice the little things like the blueness of the sky, or the cleanness of the air, or the songs of the many types of birds. Remember your connectedness, despite being apart, and take courage that we are all together. The whole of creation is together. Peace be with you, Rev. Amy Ruhf In seminary, I experienced Holy Week in a way I never had before. We observed the Paschal Triduum, which recalls the passion, crucifixion, death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Triduum (pronounced TRIH-doo-um) is a highly liturgical experience that most Presbyterian churches don’t observe, and instead of being three distinct services, it is one single service that merely pauses until it is resumed the next day. Triduum begins with Maundy Thursday, moves into Good Friday, and culminates with the Great Vigil, a three-hour mobile vigil of Word, Light, Bath, and Table that ends with a joyful celebration of Christ's resurrection. It’s a beautiful service that shaped my faith and understanding of Holy Week in surprising ways during my four years at Austin Seminary. I knew this year’s Holy Week wouldn’t be the same, but I wasn’t prepared for the grief I felt last Thursday that persisted through Easter Sunday.
Yes, I miss my seminary community, but what I’m mourning is the loss of embodied worship - the loss of our embodied worship. I’m mourning the handshakes and hugs that we shared with one another. I’m mourning the feeling of putting on my robe, of struggling with the buttons, of placing my ceramic cross and silk stoles over my head and around my shoulders. I’m mourning the water from the font that dripped down my arms when I raised my hands to lead the assurance. I'm mourning the sound of creaking pews and occasional coughs and the rustle of bulletins. I’m mourning the tingling resonance of the intertwined voices of the choir and congregation. I’m mourning the bread and cup absent from our Table. I’m mourning for me and for you and for us. Our virtual worship is a lifeline. There’s no question about that. Our Zoom meetings and emails and phone calls reconnect us with one another. Thanks be to God! But none of those things are the same as seeing each other in person. Our shared virtual ministry is profound and effective, but it’s no substitute for physically worshiping and working and fellowshipping together. This quarantine has revealed to me that God was more present in our worship than we may have realized. But the truth is, God remains more present in our worship than we may realize. We are unable to be with one another, but God is with us. Worship in my small apartment feels nothing like a sanctuary - nothing like the worship that I know and love - and yet I know God is here. The worship that happens within these walls is holy and amazing, even when I don't feel that way. I may not yet feel God’s presence, and I doubt I’ll mourn this worshiping experience when it finally ends, but I need to seek the ways God is embodied in this different and unique style of worship. And perhaps you do, too. Holding you in love, Rev. Andrew Frazier Grief. That's what this uncomfortable feeling is, they say. Some days it feels sort of like an allergic reaction or hay fever...irritating and annoying. Noticeable off and on, but not all consuming. Other days, it's like a backache, swinging from mild pain to a sudden spasm that stops me in my tracks and demands attention.
And like pain, grief can make sleeping difficult. And it's not grief over just one thing. When my parents died I was clear what my grief was about, but this is more nebulous. Am I lonely? I don't think so; I kind of like solitude. Do I miss human touch? Yes, but that doesn't feel so debilitating in and of itself. Do I feel overwhelmed when I check the number of infected and number dead in our state and county (something I do daily, like it's a duty I must carry out)? Absolutely. And I'm so aware of the pain surrounding our population. People dying alone. Loved ones separated. Jobs and businesses lost. Fear. Anxiety. So yes, I feel grief. And I hate this emotion called grief. It is so uncomfortable and it sneaks up on me, like hunger or cold, and settles into my bones before I can recognize it. And there it sits until I can move it: with tears, or music, or a conversation with a loved one. Other times it can strike like lightning (or that back spasm), and it takes my breath away. A dear friend has a phrase she shares - more in reference to making life decisions - that comes to mind for me these days. "Who do you want to be on the other side of this?" A good question to ponder when discerning important life choices. But it sticks with me now in these unprecedented times: who do I want to be on the other side of this? And who will we be? I wonder...as I comfort myself with music, and pictures of loved ones, chocolate and conversation. Who will I be? Be/Stay Well, Sandy Talbott Dear friends,
Music touches our lives in so many ways. It brings us to tears. It brings us joy. It inspires us. It moves us. And though music is only one component of our worship, in this strange time of quarantine, we long for its pulse in our lives. On this Easter Sunday, we wanted to bring you a small “playlist” of some of our favorite Easter hymns/songs to serve as a companion to you this day. May you find hope and joy on this Resurrection Sunday! Cecilia Bartoli - singing Mozart’s Exsultate Jubilate - Alleluja From Rev. Melissa Anne Rogers: This is one of my favorite Mozart pieces, and perfect for Easter. I’ve heard our own Lorna Hildebrandt sing this piece, and it fills my heart with joy every time. Enjoy -- Our Lord is Risen! Ēriks Ešenvalds - Only in Sleep - sung by the Trinity College Choir From Rev. Melisa Anne Rogers: I don’t remember how I came across this, but it is quiet and gentle and stirring... a nice way to end a joyful Easter day as you head into slumber. Rufus Wainwright - Hallelujah - Shrek Soundtrack From Rev. Evans McGowan: This song always gives me comfort in times of grief and isolation. The story of how this song came to be is expertly and creatively told by Malcolm Gladwell on his podcast Revisionist History, which I highly recommended! Here is the podcast episode, for those who are interested: http://revisionisthistory.com/episodes/07-hallelujah All Glory, Laud and Honour - sung by Kings College Cambridge - Easter 2013 From Linda Robinson, Office Manager: This is one of my favorite hymns. Inneggiamo, il Signor non è morto (We praise, the Lord is not dead) From Linda Robinson: For the opera lovers. This is called the Easter Hymn because the scene takes place on Easter. It uses the Catholic Regina coeli (Queen of Heaven) text, too. Unclouded Day, arr. Shawn Kirchner - sung by Conspirare From Rev. Andrew Frazier: This piece alludes to our true home with God and the day when death will be no more and God will wipe away every tear. Nunc dimittis, Arvo Pärt - sung by The Sixteen From Rev. Andrew Frazier: The text of this piece is the Song of Simeon from Luke 2:29-32 and speaks of Jesus in terms of “salvation,” “light,” and “glory.” Musically, the piece moves from a minor key to a major key, a movement that mirrors the journey through Holy Week to the joyful day of resurrection. Pilgrim's Hymn, Stephen Paulus - Sung by University of Utah Singers From Rev. Ruhf: This piece reminds us of the goodness of God and how God loves and cares for us before we ever call on God. El Peregrino De Emaus, Rafael Jiminez From Rev. Ruhf: Translation: “Tell me, friends, why look so troubled in your anxious conversation?” At these words, I stopped astonished by the stranger’s kindly question. Don’t you know what just happened on a hill near Jerusalem: where they crucified one Jesus shedding pure and sinless blood? For this reason, I am disheartened as I walk the Emaus road. Refrain As I was grieving on the road, a traveling stranger joined in my journey. Now in his breaking of the bread my tearfilled eyes behold the risen Christ. He’s been dead for nearly three days; and my hopes, as well are dying, though I’ve heard a group of women sought his tomb this very morning. They said they heard angels voices who announced that he was alive. But no one has found his body, and my fearful doubts have grown. For this reason, I am disheartened as I walk the Emaus road. Refrain “Foolish people!” he responded, “slow of heart in your believing how the prophets all foretold this; yet instead, you stand here grieving! Before he could enter glory, the Messiah must suffer loss.” At these words our hearts were burning hearing the scripture’s truth unfold. So we urged him to linger with us resting by the Emaus road. Refrain He began to travel onward, as the western sun was setting. We invited him to join us and to share a table blessing. Our eyes all at once were opened, though he vanished from our sight. We had seen our Friend and Savior in the bread he blessed and broke. Then we knew that the Christ had risen for he graced the Emaus road. Refrain "Morning Has Broken" sung by Cat Stevens. From Deacon Sara Vander Voort: This is how I start every morning. Hope in the Pandemic. Trinity Te Deum - Ēriks Ešenvalds From Dave VanderMeer, Minister of Music and Fine Arts: The Chancel Choir was going to sing this on Easter Sunday, but obviously it is postponed. A Te Deum can be sung on any Festival Day in the liturgical calendar. I fell in love with this piece three years ago! It’s a glorious piece of resurrection hope! Toccata by C.M. Widor From: Dave VanderMeer: One of my all time favorite organ pieces for Easter Sunday! Music When Soft Voices Die by Eric Nelson From Dave VanderMeer: I had the pleasure of singing this piece when I was in the Atlanta Master Chorale for three seasons. Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. Cells Planets by Erika Lloyd From Dave VanderMeer: I love this piece sung by Chanticleer, one of my favorite choral ensembles of men. I thought of this text being appropriate for our New Creation: Green Faith Rising Climate Change series coming up after Easter. The text is below: So far away Far away So far away Far away, When all will Shine And all will play Hey The stars will open up And all will be Tiny pieces of galaxy, Reflected in you and me... Cells, planets, same thing... Cells, planets, same thing... Cells, planets, Same thing... Bright electric lights on all the Leaves, and everything growing from a tree, The water's blood, and roots are veins I don't know you but I like you, I don't know you but I miss… Jesus Christ Is Risen Today - arr. Paul Sjolund From Dave VanderMeer: This is one of my favorite brass, timpani, and organ arrangements for Jesus Christ Is Risen Today. Happy Easter to FPC! In the Night - Andrew Peterson From Rev. Mark Mares: This is a fun song that a friend of mine shared with me that I love returning to on Easter. In his words, “Andrew Peterson has done the impossible in this song. He tells the grand story of God’s salvation woven through the Bible in tight, sparse lines, somehow managing to hit so many important notes while keeping a Come Lord Jesus sense of urgency and pathos.” Amen. Awake, O Sleeper - written by Steven Rodriguez & sung here by Pillar Church From Rev. Mark Mares: This is one of my favorite songs to sing, written by my friend who I quote in my first recommended song. I love the way he weaves the Gospel good news in the simplicity of this line: “Awake, O Sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you. The firstborn son he lives again; he has made all things new.” You Are the New Day - written by Welsh rock musician John David and sung here by VoiceBox From Sandy Talbott, Parish Nurse/Wellness Coordinator: While this song was written as a secular piece, when I hear it, I feel that uplifting spirit of hope and promise… a new day! For me, Easter is always about Mary Magdalene, in deep grief, going to the tomb, and then coming away, breathless and amazed. For her (and the rest of us) definitely a new day! And I’m a sucker for any beautiful a cappella piece, which always brings my spirit closer to The Source of Life. On Easter Sunday, Rev. Jay Sanderford will share a meditation for an Easter Sunrise service. The Circle Terrace at First Pres will be the backdrop. Here is that meditation for all early, and late, risers to enjoy. Matthew 28:1-10 NRSV After the Sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me." Now we are in the early dawn of Easter morning. I’m here on the beautiful Circle Terrace at First Presbyterian and taking in the sights, the scents and sounds of early spring. It was the first day of the week: that’s what the first line in the Easter story from the Gospels tells us. That’s the scene that Matthew describes when he places it all in another place, another time, another religion, another culture. It was the first day of the week. Saturday was Sabbath; Sunday was not yet the Christian Sabbath. Observing Jewish customs, the women who went to the empty tomb were Jewish. They were faithfully following Jewish burial practices. Yet they were experiencing a total and absolute transformation of everything that mattered on these days. Sunday would forever be different once the full weight of that was happening became evident. Calendars would shift as the earth trembled and the stone was rolled away. The very meaning of life and death would be forever altered. Understanding this story is helped by setting the scene. It all happened at “Dawn.” “Right before first light.” “Early.” “An ordinary day.” “Two women.” Just two women. No big crowds. I try and imagine what Easter might look like this year. A single preacher, a soloist and an organist in an otherwise empty sanctuary. No crowds of people gathering to exclaim, “Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!” Or I see singers and musicians and pastors connecting virtually through livestreaming, though I miss seeing your faces in the crowd, filling the congregation with singing, prayer and spiritual verve. In the time before Easter dawn this year, I have been missing the crowds of people. So I went scrolling through the vast collection of art, video and paintings depicting the resurrection as a form of spiritual preparation for Easter morning. There are probably millions of examples: paintings, frescos, pen-and-ink drawings, video montages, and crayon sketches by kids, cartoons and portraits. Artists have utilized what seems to be every imaginable setting to capture the intensity of what occurred at dawn on Easter morning. I have my favorites but I was captivated by a series of Marc Chagall’s paintings titled, “Crucifixion.” There, in each painting, scattered around the foot of Jesus’ cross is a large, diverse crowd of onlookers, witnesses to this massive act of salvation, all being reminded of “what all flesh shall see together” on the day of resurrection. I think of Easter and all the people gathering, the crowds queuing up for worship. And I imagine the passengers boarding an airplane. A small girl speaking two, maybe three languages, will sit just ahead of us in this tightly bunched community. A lovely gay couple will share a row with a straight guy. The Jesus of the cross, the Jesus of love will make room for them all, in a way not even the church ladies can imagine. A family of five will occupy an entire row, all from Beirut, all playing cards and singing and laughing. Two teenage boys behind us are poking each other, and kicking the back of the seats in front of them. One of the women in the exit row just discovered she has a serious cardiac condition and will need surgery when she gets off the plane. All while a strikingly handsome young man in first class is on his way to another land to meet his new bride. And the couple in the back found a joint in their children’s backpack, and are wondering what in the world to do next. We ride this airplane, this jet, and we enter into this holy service of the Easter festival at early morning all gathered together beneath the cross of Jesus, our backpacks, purses and briefcases held to our breasts, our desire for self-preservation continuing its endless march, in the air, on the ground, in the car, in the grocery store, wherever. Those who are ‘in' will try and keep those who are ‘out’ out, but fortunately we will all fail because of the size and grace of our salvation created by the one who climbed up on the cross of salvation and hope. On Easter, the cross makes us new. How? In the way we address the person in the seat next to us. The way we embrace our neighbors warmly in this Covid-19 era, from a safe social distance. The new life will come to us in new relationships, in new communities, just as Jesus warned us eternally, saying again and again that he lived and died so we might love one another. The new will be in relationship to what we do not yet know but do want to know about each other. The new will come in little packages, packed around the cross of Jesus in pressing expectation. Christ is Risen! He is Risen indeed! Rev. Jay Sanderford Associate Pastor A Prayer for Easter In this moment, we will gather no closer than six feet. The Bible says, “they were all gathered together in one place.” And we do not know when we will be together next. Triune God, you exist in eternal relationship. You are One and yet are three. In a time of isolation, draw us closer to this mystery. May it remind us of your truth: even in physical isolation, we are never truly alone. Your love links us together, making us a people. For the Bible also says: We belong to each other. We belong to you. Even now. Especially now. Amen. I have always lived by the motto, “You cannot know what is around the next corner… but you know Who will be there to meet you.”
Let’s face it — life has always been unpredictable, and it always will be. The only real constant is change. And yet, as Christians, we hold on to the expectation, and reach for the hope, that we are not alone, that God cares, and is present. Through the Holy Spirit, I know God has my back. I see myself coming around a bend to find a new burden placed on my shoulder, but I also see Jesus, taking my hand, giving me his arm, and helping me carry whatever comes. The last three years have been filled with deep valleys for me. I’m sure you have your own. Thank you for sharing them with me. We all face change, and when we name those things for the people around us, we are also joining them in their own struggles. What we share is our vulnerability. We are united by the shared experiences of illness, loss, grief, and other hardships. But, oh, those peaks are splendid, aren’t they? I try to name them often. There are so many. The peaks have been times with you all on pilgrimage, our weekly worship services in which I am so deeply inspired and strengthened in faith, and solid, life-giving relationships with friends who companion me through uncertainty and grief, the joy that is always available if I but turn towards it with open arms, the wisdom, insight, and direction of a skilled therapist, the assurance of answered prayer. When I come around the corner, Jesus is there in these particular ways — the glory of worship, the beauty of nature, the gift of unconditional love, the wonder of self-discovery. This is a knowledge, deep and grounded within me, that the Lord is real. It’s taken time for me to be able to say that with integrity and clarity and authenticity, for it wasn’t always so. This unshakeable sense of the Divine presence comes from experience. The more we endure, the more we know this. Looking in the rearview mirror of our lives, we can see. Through hindsight, we revisit those low points. As we come up from the valleys, then we feel those strong everlasting arms of God pulling us up. Every time I have cried out of the depths, eventually I have come to sing praises for being saved from them and brought to a new place of joy. Like all of you, I have days of doubt and moments of despair. I struggle with how to help my boys have this kind of faith because they must find it for themselves. They simply need more days on this planet, slugging through trying to make good choices and dealing with the consequences of their unfortunate ones. They require more experiences and more trials. They must build a stash of memories in which they didn’t know how they would ever get through something dark and see the light again — and then they did. They need a stockpile. They aren’t going to get it just because I have told them my story. Their own story needs some more chapters. Surely this time with the coronavirus will be one of them if, God willing, they live through it. Annie Johnson Flint's life was marked with a series of tragedies that inspired her to write poetry. A young mother in my first congregation framed these words as a parting gift, and still today, the words hang in my bedroom. These rhyming verses are so simple. At times I think they are too simplistic, that I should draw from Rilke, or Kierkegaard, or T.S. Eliot for something more sophisticated. But reading them again brings me comfort. They are true — they name my own experience. And I can only hope that my children will come to express something similar as they power through these dark days. I pray that you find these words true as you come around the next corner, and into these dark days of Holy Week. God hath not promised skies always blue, Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through; God hath not promised sun without rain, Joy without sorrow, peace without pain. God hath not promised we shall not know Toil and temptation, trouble and woe; He hath not told us we shall not bear many a burden, many a care. God hath not promised smooth roads and wide, Swift, easy travel, needing no guide; Never a mountain rocky and steep, Never a river turbid and deep But God hath promised strength for the day, Rest for the labor, light for the way, Grace for the trials, help from above, Unfailing sympathy, undying love. Peace be with you, Rev. Melissa Anne Rogers I’m writing this at about 4 a.m. One side-effect for me of returning to work after a year of retirement is a recurrence of a pattern of nocturnal wakefulness. I seem to swim through deeper waters of sleep for the first several hours of the night – but then some subconscious current pushes me up toward the surface of wakefulness where some left-over piece of the day’s worry is often waiting to hook me and haul me up out of sleep. During my retired year in Ipswich, before Ann Arbor, I had coffee every week with a dear friend, a retired medical ethicist who lives just down the street. We discovered that we have this nocturnal trial in common – and she invented a name for it: the Hour of the Wolf. Ruth says it’s the darkest and most silent time of the night – when, if a wolf were to howl in the distance, you’d hear it with a sharpened edge, a piercing loneliness. The things that wait to capture our anxious minds sound bigger and more ominous than they turn out to be, when the daylight comes. But in the hour of the wolf, they quicken the pulse; they shake the foundations until the sun rises. In this time of crisis, when nothing has prepared us to anticipate the scope of what we’re facing, I’ve been noticing how hard it is to keep things in perspective. It becomes clearer every day that life and death are locked in an elemental struggle around us. And though there is no doubt that our species and our planet will survive it, there is also no way of predicting, at this point, what the toll will be. So, especially in the solitude of the hour of the wolf when the data around us howls and casts such looming shadows, I think of some words that I have treasured for years – hoping that I didn’t dream their truth, hoping they can stand up to the piercing cry of the wolf. The words come from a novel I love beyond almost any other – Godric, by Frederick Buechner. It’s the story of a 12th century monk who lives a hermit’s life utterly devoted to Jesus and his mother Mary, but with an earthy sense of human imperfection, God’s sense of humor, and the grace that infuses all things. Here is Godric, in his scrawny 80’s, describing his daily spiritual practice of immersion in a pool of water brought from the icy river Wear by his monastic companion Brother Perkin: In the little church I built of wood for Mary, I hollowed out a place for him. Perkin brings him by the pail and pours him in. Now that I can hardly walk, I crawl to meet him there. He takes me in his chilly lap to wash me of my sins. Or I kneel down beside him till within his depths I see a star. Sometimes this star is still. Sometimes she dances. She is Mary’s star. Within that little pool of Wear she winks at me. I wink at her. The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup. What’s lost is nothing to what’s found… In the hour of the wolf I hear myself pray, O please, let it be so: help us to find enough of what we need in this world to outweigh the burgeoning loss. And all the death that ever was… The shadows are so dark, the night so silent, and there will be so much to worry about tomorrow. All the death that ever was, set next to life… I hear the howling clash between them, and I want to believe, I need to believe – Lord, I believe; help my unbelief. …Set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup. Let the sun rise. Let the Son rise on this world, in this time: let the new day begin. Let some star, some crumb of light guide us back to one another again – where we can pool our hope, and be washed free of our despair. Peace, Rev. Rick Spalding |
Archives
May 2020
Categories |