My Easter Homily, delayed

 Alleluia!  I guess.  Sort of.

 

I don’t know about you, but I always feel behind a little on Easter Day.  Being deeply in the story means going through the shock and the grief of Jesus’ death.  It’s hard to let go of that and just rejoice.  Oh, happy day!  Thank God that’s over!  No.  

These past days we have been remembering a traumatic event.  Today is another one.  It may be joyful, but it’s still traumatic: a human has been raised from the dead.  We watched him die, but now he’s here. 

 

It’s enough to make anyone crazy.

 

So why do we go through this?  Why have generations of Christians walked this road?  

 

Many Protestant churches do not bother with Holy Week.  They don’t have crucifixes in their churches, but only empty crosses.  They seem to want resurrection without the passion.  Many people, Christians and non-Christians, see the focus on Jesus’ passion and death as morbid.  

 

And it can be.  For generations, the Western Church acted as though Easter never took, new life never came.  It’s possible to be so fixated on the cross that we deny the power of the resurrection.

 

We stand here today in the both/and.  Jesus died, a horrible death.  And Jesus rose, a shocking glorious new possibility.  

 

We need both parts.  

 

We go through the horror of Holy Week as a chance to reflect and be with our own horrors, the horrors of our own lives and the horrors of the world.  We go through it because it enacts the human condition of sin and vulnerability.

 

We rejoice at Easter because this too is part of the human condition.  Not bodily resurrection; we are promised that, but we don’t see it in our daily lives.  But we do see new life grow out of ashes.  We see people wake up seemingly from the dead.  Gang members become model citizens.  People suffering from disease become activists and inspirations.  Divorce, poverty, family death, addiction, injustice, are every day transformed into new courage and contribution.  Jesus’ resurrection is the peak of this experience, but it is not the only example.

 

If we deny the pain, we cannot find our way to the resurrection.  As a recovering addict, I know that denial just leaves us stuck in the mire.  In that place, we can’t even grieve.  

 

If we deny the possibility of resurrection in our lives, we settle for misery.  The voices in us may say we’re better off this way, without hope; we won’t be disappointed.  But those voices lie.  We will be disappointed again, we will suffer more loss, but the loss of hope does not soothe.  With hope we face disappointment, but we will also have access to joy and love and power.  

 

Today is the beginning of Easter.  We have 50 days to absorb this truth, to enter into the joy of the resurrection.  And we have the rest of our lives to live this delicious drama of being human, all of it.

 

Jesus goes before us, into the suffering and into the joy.  Mary Magdalene goes with him, and is sent.  In turn, the male apostles, and the women as well, are sent to proclaim the good news.  And now it’s our turn.

 

Alleluia!  The Lord is risen!

At the Tomb

 

I keep thinking about Sister Margaret Helena.

"Sister" was my teacher and guide when I entered religious life in 2000.  She was 96, crippled with arthritis, with Coke-bottle glasses that made her looks really mean something.  She was not a gentle, meek nun; she was a tough cookie, brooking no compromise with the Rule, and restless and frustrated with her limitations.  She was a perfect match for me, as I was pretty tough, and I wanted to live the life in its fullness, and I'm always restless and frustrated by limitations.  Her fierce love kept me in the convent in the early times (and not-so-early) when I wanted to flee.  

She died on October 30, 2003, five days before her 99th birthday and four months after I made my first vows.  We had the full old-fashioned burial, with vigil lamps around the coffin, the offices of the dead and the requiem mass.  

The night before the funeral, I sat vigil at her coffin.  I cried.  I sobbed, really.  And I told her: "Sister, I don't think I can do this without you."  She would not have wanted to hear that, but that's how it felt.

I'm remembering her today as I think about what that Sabbath day was like for the disciples.  Their beloved teacher, the one they pinned their hopes on, was dead and buried.  He had said things about rising again, but they had no idea what he meant.  There was nothing to do but sit.  And I imagine many of them said in their hearts, "Jesus, I can't do this without you."  

Jesus wouldn't have wanted to hear that.  He was training them to be more than disciples; he called them friends, he sent them to teach and heal and serve.  He didn't mean for his death to be the end of their roads.  But on that day, it probably felt that way to them.

Well, I was right on that vigil night.  I couldn't do it without her, in the way we had hoped for.  Six years later I left that community, bereft.  I knew the seed was in me, I treasured my vows, but I couldn't live them out in that way.

And yet, I was wrong.  God had not stopped working in my life.  Out of my tears I found my way to companions who shared the dream of a new community.  I brought my experience to the mix of what we were creating.  Over the years I've had to let go of some of that to make way for new forms of monastic life, but some lives on.  Sister is still with me.  More, Jesus is still with me.  If I will take the time to listen, Jesus still guides me.  If I will take the chance of following through, the Holy Spirit upholds me.  

Today I sit at Jesus' tomb, with my companions.  And I remember all those I've buried, all those who have tried to teach me and strengthen me.  I grieve this day, but I know, I know, that my Redeemer lives.   That is enough for today.