Easter Sunday Wrap Up

Our church was packed yesterday.  We usually have 40-60 people in the pews on a regular Sunday, which leaves lots of room.  Yesterday, we didn't have much space empty.  What a delight to sing in a sanctuary full of voices.

We finished the first Easter hymn and from somewhere near the back, a little voice proclaimed, "Yay!"  Our pastor smiled and said, "Ah, the Easter yay."  The little voice said it several more times.  I was so glad that we didn't hear any shushing.

We had a good church service.  Our pastor's message focused on the women who weren't believed at first, and then our pastor circled back to Jesus' good news for those, like women, who had been marginalized.

At one point, we had thought we might skip Easter service.  My sister and nephew were in town, and they usually don't want to go to church.  But my spouse was integral to the choir, which had a piece that had been composed with his violin skills in mind.  He floated the idea to my sister a few weeks ago, and she said they'd go, especially if they didn't have to dress up.

We do not have a church that requires dressing up.  We're in a vacation place, after all.

We didn't have brunch at church or watch the Easter egg hunt.  My spouse and I had already told our counting team that we couldn't count.  We went home and had a quiet Easter Sunday, soaking in one last day of sunshine and later grilling some lamb chops.

Easter is not my favorite church holiday; Christmas gets that honor.  But it's good for me to remember that Easter has its delights too.

Easter Sunday, 2019

Here we are at Easter Sunday, a surprisingly chilly morning in South Florida, although it does remind me of the Easter Sundays of my youth, in Montgomery or Charlottesville or Knoxville.  Most years the winter hadn't been particularly harsh, but I was always ready for warmer weather.  Easter morning always had that chilly promise of an intense summer that was just around the corner.

We haven't done much in the way of tradition, although my sister and nephew have been here.  I'd have made a bunny cake.  But I know I'd have been the only one to eat it, so I decided not to do it.  We've been eating enough high calorie treats, without adding cake into the mix.

We haven't decorated eggs.  I don't usually do that, so that's not strange.

Some years I might have baked some sort of festive bread over the week-end, particularly hot cross buns.  I did heat up some cinnamon babka that I got from a grocery store, but it's not the same.

I am feeling like I should have thought ahead to have some sort of egg casserole ready to bake this morning, but again, I likely would have been the only one to eat it.  I will likely cook some sort of eggs to go with the bacon that my spouse is about to cook before he goes to church early for choir rehearsal.

We have not totally flunked Easter.  When I look back on this week-end, I want to remember the times of all of us gathered around a table, my Philosopher spouse, theologian me, sister who is the mother to my nephew.  I want to remember that we had conversations about the roots of the holidays of Easter which led to conversations about Passover, which led to conversations about the best ways of dealing with oppressive governments.

At first, I felt tense.  Do we really need to have these conversations (about oppressive governments, not about history) now?  But I saw that my nephew listened intently and intensely.  And I thought, if not now, when?

Unlike a lot of the world's twelve year olds, my nephew can linger in a safe space a bit longer.  He doesn't have government agents coming after him.  He may never need the lessons that we are teaching to save his own skin.

But the oppressed of the world rely on those of us who are safe to leave our safety to make the world better.  Good Friday tells us what might happen if we do.  Easter Sunday gives us the promise that our work will not be in vain.

Death does not have the final word.  Not during the times of the Roman empire, not during our own time of turbulence.  Alleluia!

Waiting with the Bloody Cross

First the meal, then the ordeal.  And now, we wait.

I think of those first disciples, both the ones we know of, and the ones that will forever be unnamed.  I think of them stunned by a variety of grief.  There's the primary grief of death:  our loved one will never return.  We've lost them forever.

There's the grief of unresolved outcomes:  the words we never got around to saying, the emotions we held choked up in our bodies for fear of expressing them.  There must have been the grief of how it might have been.  I think of the disciples, some of whom must have been saying, "I thought he was going to get away with it.  He pulled it off for so long, this speaking the truth that we've been told must be left alone.  I thought they might let him live."

I imagine the disgruntled ones, the ones who could see this outcome coming from miles away, the ones who say, "Well, I knew this wouldn't end well.  I told Jesus . . . "  I think of the ones who might have even argued with Jesus and tried to convince him to try a different approach, to fly under the radar where he could live and continue his incredible work.  What good is a savior who is dead?

I think of the ones who feel betrayed--so many ways to feel betrayed.  I think of the ones who might have said, "Well, he's hanging on a cross of his own making."  I think of the ones who wanted a more violent revolution, the ones who were so disgusted that they were ready to burn it down (it being society or the other disciples or Jesus himself or  . . . well, anything at all).

I think of the ones who must have felt stranded or marooned.  What to do next? 

The women point the way, as they so often do.  Saviors come and go, compelling ideas collapse, communities lie in ruins, but the daily work must be done.  There are mouths to feed and dead bodies to wash, and spice mixtures to create to cover the stench of death all around us.

It's interesting to think about how the Gospel writers handle the resurrection part of this story.  It's the women who return to the tomb because they see the work that is still left to be done.  In doing the drudgery work of dealing with the body, they are the first witnesses to the resurrection.

As we do our own drudge work, cleaning up after those in our communities who leave chaos in their wake, let us remember that the payoff may be that we are the first to witness the miraculous.

For those of us who are grieving for those who are crucified, hanging on crosses of their own devising or being tortured by the government/society, let us remember that the bloody cross doesn't have to be the final answer.

Good Friday: Empire and Modern Stations of the Cross

Today, much of Christendom will celebrate Good Friday, the day that remembers the Crucifixion of Christ. This is the day that no bread can be consecrated. Many Christians will fast today. Some will fast until Easter morning.

When I was a child, Good Friday was my favorite service.  The Lutheran church of my childhood didn't offer much variety in terms of what happened from Sunday to Sunday.  In retrospect, it may be that my childhood self had a different sense of time.

Good Friday offered a sharp difference to what we usually did in church:  lights dimming to darkness, the book closing with a big bang.  I always deliberated whether I loved Christmas Eve best or Good Friday.

Now I see Good Friday as highly problematic.  Unlike many Christians, I don't believe that Jesus had to die for my sins so I could get into heaven.  I don't believe in substitutionary atonement.  I've done some research, and I know that idea is much newer to Christianity than many of us know.  I know that the ancient world would have caught the subtle ways that the original Christian church was trying to undercut the priests and organized religion of the day by suggesting that we didn't need those methods of redemption.

Frankly, I don't understand how anyone could worship a God who would demand that horrific blood sacrifice of crucifixion before loving us.  Moreover, it doesn't square with many of the presentations of God in our scriptures.

But I do know how hard it is to get away from that idea.  Many people are not trained to think critically, and even if they are, there are many topics that feel too scary to apply those critical thinking skills.  I understand that, but I'm still flabbergasted that this idea of Jesus dying for my inability to live a sin-free life has such a powerful hold on us.

So then why did Jesus die?  He was crucified, which was not the way that most people were put to death in the Roman empire.  Ordinary criminals were stoned.  People who posed a threat to the state were crucified--a very public execution that served as a warning and a deterrent.

I'm also uncomfortable with how Good Friday has been used as a reason to oppress/slaughter Jews.  Many Good Friday services have not gotten all the anti-Semitic aspects out of the liturgy.  It's problematic.

Good Friday does give us a great opportunity to think about our systems of empire and how they are still a threat to those who are lower in the power hierarchy of our social structures.  My church bought prints of the Jesus at the Border stations of the cross series by the artist Mary Button, and they now hang around the sanctuary.  My Lenten journaling group spent time with the installation on Wednesday night.  It was a powerful experience.

The artist has used this stations of the cross approach to several social justice issues, like climate change and mass incarceration.  It's an interesting way to move away from the traditional ways that Good Friday is so problematic.

Maundy Thursday Musings, the 2019 Version

--I begin the day as I usually do, thinking about the calendar day, thinking about the liturgical calendar, thinking about the day in past years and deeper history.  Of course, during Holy Week these thoughts take on a particular color.

--Today I am thinking about Christians around the world who will celebrate this day that celebrates the last meal of Jesus, according to tradition.  Some congregations will hear about Jesus and the washing of the feet.  Some will focus on the meal itself.  Some will ponder the betrayals about to come.

--I think about how those disciples were so sure of themselves.  Judas who had become disgusted with Jesus.  Peter who knew that he would remain faithful.  As always, I think of the ones we don't know about.  The one who prepared the meal.  The one who would do the clean up and wished that the meal would be over so that the clean up could begin.  The one who needed to slip away to take care of his sick mother or take a quick smoking break or just get away from the fawning attention of the other affirmation hungry disciples.

--This morning I saw the moon setting as I looked out my kitchen window.  I can see out of my kitchen window now because I took down the wretched scrap of cloth that we used as a curtain for many years.  I washed it, even though I knew I would throw it away.  That detail seems fitting for a Maundy Thursday poem which I have yet to write.

--In past years, I might have made bread, and I'm tempted to do it this year.  But I have cleaning to do--my sister and nephew arrive this afternoon, and at the very least, I must get rid of the grossness in the bathroom.  I've been keeping the toilet clean, but the sink, bathtub, and floors need some attention.  I also hope to clean the hardwood floors throughout the house.  The other types of restoration that I had hoped to do (sorting through some piles of paperwork, unpacking some dishes, on and on I could go) will wait for a day/week-end/retirement when I have more time.

--I think of the washing of the disciples' feet, the grossness of those feet.  My Maundy Thursday cleaning seems appropriate.  My poor house, this past year of renovations and neglect, this long, slow slog.

--Because we have houseguests arriving, I did some grocery shopping yesterday.  I spend a good part of each day trying to obey Christ's mandatum that we love each other.  I am not certain that Jesus would approve of my showing of love by buying my nephew a bag of Doritos in every flavor offered by the smaller Publix near my school.

--We will have a version of the Last Supper, by which I mean my spouse has bought a lot of lamb, my nephew's current favorite meat.  We will also have bread, likely made by us, and perhaps grilled.

--It will be a different Maundy Thursday, but it will satisfy.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Easter Sunday, April 4, 2019:

First Reading: Acts 10:34-43

First Reading (Alt.): Isaiah 65:17-25

Psalm: Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 15:19-26

Second Reading (Alt.): Acts 10:34-43

Gospel: Luke 24:1-12

Gospel (Alt.): John 20:1-18

I've talked to many people who seem a bit amazed at how fast this season of Lent has zoomed by us. I've talked to several people who don't feel ready for Easter at all. Are we ever ready for Easter?

Some years feel more difficult than others. This has been a strange Holy Week, with the fire in the Notre Dame cathedral.  It's been a year of terrorism, but almost every year we seem to say that.  It's been another year of natural disasters too, with raging wildfires and hurricane Michael, one of the most powerful hurricanes to come ashore.

If we're lucky enough to have been spared from natural disaster ourselves, we've likely looked on in horror as other parts of our world have suffered horribly. If we're thinking people at all, we have to realize how precarious is our existence on the surface of our planet, that surface which looks stable, but we know that forces are rumbling underneath.

Maybe you say to yourself that you're still in that Ash Wednesday space. Maybe you ask, "How can we celebrate Easter with the taste of ashes still in our mouths?"

Hear that Easter message again. Know that God is working to redeem creation in ways that we can't always see and don't often understand. But we get glimpses of it.

The earth commits to resurrection this time of year. Green sprouts shoot out from hard earth everywhere. Each spring, we are reminded of the cyclical nature of the world, which can bring us hope in the times in which we suffer. This, too, shall pass.

But maybe we see those examples of resurrection as random and capricious. If we've heard the Easter story (and the Holy Week stories) again and again, we tend to forget the miraculous nature of them. Maybe we're tempted to downplay them even. Maybe we're beaten down and tired:  tired of praying that the insurance company gets its act together before the next hurricane season starts, tired of praying for health and people getting sicker, tired of praying for peace in the world which never seems to come, too beaten down and tired to believe in miracles anymore.

Resist that pull towards despair, which some have called the deadliest sin, even worse than pride. We have seen miracles with our own eyes: Nelson Mandela walks out of jail to claim his place as president, for example; peace in Northern Ireland; peace in some parts of Eastern Europe. We're often too shy or scared to run out of our gardens to tell everyone else what we've seen, what we know.

We may worry that the world is sliding backward, but we've always been worried about that possibility.  We must remember we are a Resurrection People. Commit yourself to new life. Rinse the ashes out of your mouth with the Eucharist bread and wine. Celebrate the miracles.

The Ooziness of God

On Sunday, we went to see the Judy Chicago exhibit at the Institute of Contemporary Art, Miami.  I was excited to see the work from The Birth Project again.

When I was home from undergraduate school for summer, some of those works came to the D.C. area.  My folks lived in suburban Virginia, and one Saturday in 1985, my mom and I went into the city to the various galleries to see the work.  I was in awe, inspired, and transformed.

I grew up in conservative Lutheran churches in the conservative part of the U.S. south.  We prayed to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.  In my brain, God looked like President Lincoln, if Lincoln had a flowing beard, sitting on a throne, a white marble deity.

The Birth Project changed the way I viewed God forever.  Here were images of a clearly female deity giving birth to the world.  I started researching the history of Divine imagery, and I was amazed by what I hadn't been taught.  I started to think about how history might have been different if we had been worshiping a female god.

Eventually I decided that either side of the gender binary was too limiting a way to see God--and to see humans.  So I was interested to see these works of Judy Chicago again, the works that propelled me down this path.

I rounded a corner and saw one of my favorite tapestries, which you can see here, if you scroll down to the second image, The Creation.  I love its colors and the evolutionary feature of the content.  In most images, you can't tell that it's needlepoint/tapestry.  But Sunday, I saw the varied nature of the threads.  And on the screen/page, you can't really tell how huge it is.

The exhibit had ten of the works, and while I was happy to see them again, I wasn't moved by them the way I was in the past.  In fact, I was deeply unhappy with the ooziness of it all.  Every breast is leaking, every vagina is being ripped apart by what's being born.  Did I not see that as a younger woman?  Or was I so thrilled at the idea of a female God that I didn't think through the implications of the ooziness?

I want an image of a God weaving a world out of disparate threads or fusing metals together with a welding torch.  I think it's dangerous to focus on the womb as our primal image of creation or the penis for that matter.  We have centuries of seeing what that means for women--women are confined to their childbearing duties/responsibilities/privileges, and that's used to constrain their horizons.  I didn't think about that aspect as a younger woman.

I am grateful for those images that stirred my thoughts so long ago.  I'm also grateful that my thoughts didn't stop there.  The works seem a bit dated, and I kept reminding myself that in fact, they are dated.  That doesn't have to be a bad thing.  It can be a window to the past, even if it's no longer a door to the future.