We Shall All Be Changed

By the Rev. Kathleen C. Rolenz
for the West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, Rocky River, Ohio
April 20, 2003

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen." Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galillee, that the Son of man must be delivered into the hands of men, and be crucified, and on the third day rise." And they remembered his words and returning to from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene and Joanna and Mary the mother of James and the other women with them who told this to the apostles; but these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.

Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins [humans] as a rule, view the prenatal abyss with more clam than the one they are heading for…

I know, however, of a young chronophobiac [one who fears time] who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth.

He saw a world that was practically unchanged--the same house, the same people--and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence.

He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs window, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell.

But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated."

Oh here we are again, Standing on the edge of the morning, Creeping in with the women to perform their stealth act of kindness, The final act of love they can give to their friend. And here we are again, to hear the ancient story, the old words, told not only in this church, but thousands of churches all over the world, to ponder the meaning of those words "He is risen." Now for some, those three words are a dogma, a creed, a proof text for a system of belief that the Apostle Paul would later turn into a gospel, but for us, we ask this morning a different question that haunts the Christian tradition: "why do you look for the living among the dead?

This Easter morning, and that Easter moment, when the women realized that something had changed--something was new, provides us with a fresh opportunity year after year

to reflect on the biggest themes of all--innocence, suffering, death and resurrection. These stories aren't ancient though, really, because they are lived among us every day. One of the most important gifts that church offers is the opportunity to bring to life very old stories and sacred texts; to reveal how these texts come alive in the life of the worshipping body.

We have among us at least three kinds of people with at least three different experiences towards death: We have what I shall call Spring people; and Good Friday people; and Easter people--and they are all part of this morning's story.

Spring people are those people who are living their lives and who are not necessarily thinking about death. If they do think about death; it's something that is far-away and happens to other people. They may have encountered death as a child; with the death of a pet or a beloved grandparent; but the loss has been assimilated into their memory and recalling those losses don't create an ache. It's a wonderful thing to be in this place, living out the fullness of our days with only the hint of mortality. The poet Jane Kenyon describes this sweet, "Spring" place when she writes:

We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks…it might have been otherwise.

Spring people are not unlike the chronophobiac that Nabokov described in this morning's reading, seeing the life that was lived before he was born--a kind of sweet tableau of mother and baby carriage--until he reflected on the truth that at that point in history he had not yet come into being--and one day--his being will be no more. One day…we know…it will be otherwise. The Good Friday experience will come. Without warning, our warm and sunny spring days turn into a cold Good Friday, with a harsh and bitter wind that threatens to nip the sturdy daffodils in the bud.

We have among us those Good Friday people, those persons for whom the reality of death is a daily companion. For some who have lived long and satisfying lives, death is not an enemy, but a friend--a release from the burdens of an aging body; a gentle rest after a long and vigorous life. For others, the closeness of death comes as a shock. One minute you are free and walking unencumbered on the earth; and the next you are shackled, and like Jesus, subject to an inquisition not of your choosing. Or, perhaps it's not you, but someone you love, and suddenly death becomes an active companion in your days. The reality of that loss is both overwhelming and intensifying of every experience. "To remember every day that we will die, as St. Benedict advised, is not morbidity, it is being aware of and present with life."

And so we have also a third kind of experience in this church. There are those who are living on the other side of death; those who are the Easter people. They are those among us for whom resurrection has become a process and a practice by which they live their lives.

We said at the Tenebrae service on Thursday night, that before we experience Easter--the resurrection, we must experience Good Friday. You know, truthfully, I don't want to go there myself. I'd much rather talk about Easter bunnies and children and rebirth and flowers. I'd much rather launch into a dissection of the Easter story, using Biblical scholarship to prove how it couldn't have really happened…didn't really happen… I don't want to put myself in the position of talking about suffering on a day that's supposed to be joyful. And yet…and yet…we're an honest people, we Unitarian Universalist. Ours is not a religion of pure sunshine. It's not only there for you when you're in the Spring of your life--when life is rolling along in a predictable, stable way; it's a faith for your Good Friday too. It's a faith for the "otherwise" times as well.

We shall all be changed by our encounters with death. Just as I believe that Jesus' disciples were changed by his death, so are we, changed by the losses we experience. This Easter season, as part of my own spirtitual reading, I've been moved by Benedictine author Joan Chittister's powerful essay entitled: "After Great Pain: Finding a Way Out." She writes:

"When the foundations of our world begin to shake…our ability to deal with the remainder of our world begins to shudder too…reality becomes blurred. We live in our losses, our pain, our memories, our lost hopes. We run or we lean…like children burned on a stove or animals subjected to shock collars, we take no chances now on anything that might hurt us the same way again…we shun love, fear organizations, stop our work, burn our plans, avoid the very things we love most…(either) we shut ourselves off from the rest of the world or we give ourselves over entirely to its excesses. Where is the way out of this morass? Where is the end of the pain? Where is life when all life has been destroyed?" [1]

Where is the end of pain, Chittister ask? "Why do you seek the living among the dead?" the two mysterious men in the tomb call out to us. The text does not supply an answer; in fact, the women are mute and their response, at first, is terror and amazement. Such junctures in our lives, between the metaphorical Good Friday and Easter Sunday can be dangerous times, both psychologically and spiritually. "Having lost the dream, we risk losing the balance in ourselves as well. We stand on the brink of losing the future as well as the past." (Chittister, pg. 40)

What happened in those women's hearts between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning? What happens to us in between the loss of something we hold most precious and resurrection? Chittister reminds us "We find ourselves alone in a fragile world not of our own making, an unfriendly place where the sun no longer shines for us. What can possibly be the gift of such a state? It is the call out of isolation into independence. It is the grace of discovering that our lives are more than any one event and that we, not fate, are really what will determine what the rest of our lives will be like."

Between the Good Friday night and Easter Sunday morning, there are decisions to be made and transformation to happen, for in truth--we are souls in transformation. Perhaps instead of avoiding church or people or places, we need to wear a little sign during our Good Friday times that say "handle with care." Instead of isolating ourselves or feeling the need to tell our story over and over again which may exhaust us, OR, feeling that we have to smile and put on a happy face when inside we are weeping, perhaps we need to wear black or some other signal to others that says "I'm in mourning, I'm in a fragile state, I'm a soul in transition. I'm not back together yet, but I need your company…I need your presence… I need to be around life while not feeling resurrection yet. I'm in the darkness of the tomb where the nurturing dark holds me like the womb… and I know I can't stay here…but thank you, for walking with me, your silent presence has made a difference."

Of course we can't wear clothes that can say all that, or wear signs around our necks that simply say "soul under construction," but perhaps we, who are enjoying the "Spring" time of our lives-- can develop the kind of keen eye that spots the first crocus coming out of the ground…and hold one another in quiet, compassionate silence. Or maybe we anoint one another by simply showing up each Sunday, like the women did at early dawn.

These Good Friday times change us, there is no doubt. Sometimes, after loss, just living feels like a struggle. But struggle faces us with choices. Hard choices. "There can be no growth without resistance," the Chinese proverb teaches us. We know that struggle is a fact of life. " The great choice with which struggle confronts us then, is not whether to accept it--struggle comes unbidden. It doesn't matter whether we accept it. The choice is whether to crumble under it or to live with it long enough to experience, and make a practice of, resurrection." (adapted, Chittister.)

This is what the Easter experience invites : Good Friday people who are immersed in dealing with the reality of death; and Easter people who are companioned by death also seek to live and practice resurrection.

When we read the gospel story for this morning, resurrection seems so fast--so quick--and so easy. Jesus comes back, has dinner with his disciples and then flies up to heaven. In our lives, we know that resurrection is not that easy or that quick. We aren't privy to the struggles of Jesus' friends or followers to put their souls back together after their devastating loss. Instead, what we do know are the stories of people in our own lives or…or read abou. What we have are their resurrection stories…their redemption songs.

Some of these stories have come to us through the media. You may have heard of John Walsh, father of a young son kidnapped off his own street in a small rural community, who channeled his sorrow and his rage into launching the first national organization for missing children. The government had never done it. Law enforcement agencies had not done it. But Walsh did it and because of him countless children have been returned safely to their homes.

Lisa Beamer, mother of two small children and six months pregnant with the third, was widowed in the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in September 2001. Her husband, Todd led the effort to down the third of the attack planes over Pittsburgh before it could be used to bomb another government building. Several months after his death, and before the birth of their third baby; Lisa Beamer began a charitable foundation in his name the purpose of which is to help other families who find themselves left to cope with disaster with limited resources and heavy hearts. Were her struggle for resurrection successful or not?

A young, unnamed Unitarian Universalist violist from Julliard volunteered to play music at Ground Zero the day after September 11^th. When it came time to stop, he found that he couldn't and decided to keep playing alone. He played everything in his entire memorized repertoire that afternoon, playing until his hands and fingers ached and then he would remember one more song and play again. He played letting the violin weep for all that had been lost. His violin played on as his anguished fingers gave voice to beauty that exists side-by-side in counterpoint to the pain and suffering in life. He played to give testimony to the tenacity of the human spirit that can contain sorrow and joy, devastation and delight. Did his redemption song have any meaning--or not?

Suffering confronts us with choices. One of those choices is whether or not we stay in the tomb or walk out of it, blinking and shrouded, into the plain stark light. Sometimes we need the tomb as a resting place--as a place to gather strength. But we must also hear the question posed by the mysterious men in dazzling clothes: "why do you seek the living among the dead?"

In an utterly ridiculous and profound sketch in Monty Python's film "Search for the Holy Grail" there is a scene where Eric Idle is calling villagers to bring out the dead victims of the Plague from their homes. One character brings out a man who protests: "I'm not dead yet! I think I'll go out for a walk!" "Oh, but you will be!" Eric Idle assures the man, before bopping him on the head.

The resurrection process involves saying to the world "I'm not dead yet!" and at the same time embracing the truth that some day it will be otherwise. The practice of resurrection is the ability to develop both a detachment to suffering and a discernment about its place in our life.

When Wayne (the Buddhist) and I (the Christian) were talking about this sermon, I found myself challenged by this notion of detachment. For the Buddhist, the way out of suffering is detachment. Not the kind of cold, intellectualism or denial that we may associate with detachment, but the kind of detachment described by Chittister, when she writes "The isolation that marks any serious struggle is a call to recognize that life is full of gifts that come and go, come and go as we ourselves come and go through many stages of living. Detachment from the idea that there is only one way for me to go though life joyfully…is the key. The pain of loss is a real and a present thing. It manacles my soul and breaks my heart, yes. But holy indifference--detachment--teaches me that there is no room for isolation, abandonment, or death of the spirit when I lose something because I know that there is something else waiting for me in its place. If only I can allow myself to watch for it, to wait for it, to grasp it when it comes."[2]

We have among us those who have been changed by Good Friday experiences and who are living and practicing resurrection. You sit next to them at potlucks, in the church office, or in the pews on Sunday morning. They probably wouldn't call it resurrection. But if you listen, they may say "when my husband was alive…" or "before my wife died…" and you might not know that these vital 70 or 80 or 90 year olds were practicing resurrection but they are. They have known what it was like to have lived and loved someone for years, knowing them as well as you know you own body, only to know the loss of that person as well. And there are others, people you know, never married or partnered, who have let die the dream and the demand of life partnership and who have found contentment and satisfaction with their lives--who are living the lives they always wanted to and have found meaning and depth and precious gifts in the single life that were unimaginable to them before.

There is no doubt that to allow ourselves to be touched by the experience of resurrection--is a difficult thing. It involves not only detachment but discernment. What do I mean by discernment? As Chitiser notes: "Discernment is based on the awareness that we cannot always have what we want, true, but also that there is enduring, sometimes hidden, always surprising spiritual value in what we do have."

Isn't that so true? Even if when we are standing inside the empty tomb, we know that something has risen. And if we have lost one thing, don't we know that there are other things that may also lay claim to our hearts? Not the same--never the same--but different and unique and beautiful in its own way? Chitiser writes; "But the truth remains: Nothing lasts. No single thing can consume our entire life's meaning. No single thing can give us total satisfaction. Nothing is worth everything: neither past, nor present, nor future. It isn't true that the loss of any single thing will destroy us. Everything in life has some value and life is full of valuable things, things worth living for, things worth doing, things worth becoming, things worth loving again. It is only a matter of being detached enough from one thing to be open to everything else."

We can't intellectually contemplate when and how we will be changed by the resurrection experience. It's like trying to ask a tree the exact time it will bud--the precise day of its flowering. Circumstances change--and blooms come in their own time and in their own way, every year. We are called to be witnesses to this blooming--whether it is within us or in others. But the message of this day--the message of Easter and of resurrection is that it will always happen It didn't just happen to one man, at one time, 2000 some years ago--it is happening now, right now, right here, in the human hearts and minds who will be a part of history. The other side of our encounter with death--whether physical or spiritual or emotional is that there is always an invitation to be changed--to be transformed--to allow for the reality of resurrection to occur in our lives when the bud is ready to burst…when we are ready to bloom…oh, and when that happens, we shall all be changed. May it be so. Amen

[1] Chittister, Joan D. After Great Pain (The Christian Century, March 22, 2003) pgs. 38-44.

[2] Ibid, pg. 42-43