Easter VIgil
The Easter Vigil was amazing. We only had 15 but it was still a powerful experience. It was my first to plan and their first to experience, so there were some [quietly] amusing "flexibility" moments [translation: learning for next time} but the church was beautiful in candlelight. We did not have it quite as late as I would have liked but it was nearly dark when we all got inside. There were actually three little children there, so at the great Alleluia they got to ring bells, which they loved. They were SO good during the long service. One of them was a visitor so did not take Communion. The moment when God passes through me in a blessing and is acknowledged by the soul in a child's eyes has to be one of the most profound for a priest--at least this priest.
I had the A Team with me- Graff as Crucifer and Shannon as Server. Because in the flurry the elements were on the credence table and had not been put out for the children to bring up, so I let the two smallest come up before Eucharist and assist the server. They were wonderfully reverential, one holding the lavabo and one holding the towel as Shannon poured the water. They felt very included, I think. (Things you can do in a VERY small church!)
So if you are interested, here is the sermon. The Hazard Bulldogs were in the STATE Sweet 16 here in the land of Basketball so a lot of people missed the way of the Cross Friday night and were recovering Saturday night. Those are the bulldog references and the bracketed remark about Alleluia refers to the bells that were so joyously rung later by the children.
***********************************************************************
My dear friend Janet tells an amazing story about one of her family Easter gatherings. Apparently her brother-in-law is a minister (of another denomination) and each Easter would find him leaning wearily on the table, reciting how difficult Holy Week had been for him. “We had services on Palm Sunday, a community service, then Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Then we had two on Sunday. I am so tired. I cannot believe how hard this is. I am so tired!” My friend is one of those amazing people who completes the work of four people in any given day. But she is also compassionate. So she was torn between a logical argument, (such as pointing out that everyone has some crunch time in their work flow,) or just listening for one more year. Suddenly she felt bold enough to look at him directly and say, gently, “Holy week was not much fun for Jesus either.”
Last night at St. Mark’s, we had a service that was “not much fun.” Good Friday is the darkest, most somber and most intense point in the church year. For those who had lived with and learned from Jesus, it felt like the end. It felt even more like the end for them than it did for the Israelites who felt caught between the Egytpians and a seemingly impassable body of water. It felt even more to the followers of Jesus like there was only one outcome possible, than it did for Ezekiel, staring out at a desert full of dry bones. And even for those of us who were here last night, leaving a darkened church in silence and going out into a softly darkening night, it felt like an ending. [To be fair, it likely felt like that at Rupp Arena too. The Dogs had fought so hard against Shelby and now it was all over.] We were awkward conversing with one another; the hope we had been feeling so intensely seemed absent; the night did not feel the same somehow.
But none of these scenarios really were the end of course. When Moses put his hand over the sea, God parted the water so that the Israelites could escape from bondage. In Ezekiel, we hear how God breathed life into the bones, and filled them out with flesh and sinew. The dry bones came to life. Even for the Bulldogs, with only Josh Combs graduating, the promise of next year looms brightly. And for my friend’s brother in law, the words spoken were a new beginning, a spiritual awakening that has fueled him in every Holy Week since then.
So all of these readings and situations echo for us what Mary Magdalene and the other Mary felt when they went to the tomb. They believed that Jesus was gone from them forever. Despite what Jesus had told them, despite what they had observed with Lazarus, the pain of their loss seemed insurmountable. They went to see the tomb anticipating death. They went to the tomb expecting darkness.
But instead, they found light and they found life. *
Suddenly, a great earthquake occurred, and an angel of the Lord was sitting on the stone that he had rolled back away from the tomb. The guards were terrified- the angel looked like lightning in his glaringly white garments. But he calmly told the women not to be afraid. And then, with words that would both address their fear and tell them what they most wanted to know, the angel told them that Jesus was not there. He had not been stolen; the tomb had been guarded. As amazing as it might seem, he was not there because he had been raised from the dead. And as if that were not enough, they would actually get to see him again. “Remember,” they must have said to one another excitedly, “he said he would go ahead of us to Galilee, and now the angel has told us to look for him there.”
We know the story of course. We hear the words every year. But can you FEEL it? Can you imagine their joy as they hurried to do the angel’s bidding? Can you imagine how stunned and delighted they were that just when everything had seemed to be the darkest, the sun was shining and the sky was blue and their hearts were lifted to the Lord in gratitude?
Two thousand years later, we still imagine it. It is the central point of our Christian faith, but it is enormous to comprehend. So we focus on the details. That is especially important when we have Matthew’s version tonight and John’s tomorrow morning. Some scholars focus on the differences found in these details, but they are not important. What is important about keeping all of the Gospel accounts is that we have more details, more impressions and more ways for this amazing gift to each of us from our loving God to enter into our beings and find a home.
Because like the disciples, this is the path on which we can find Jesus. In fact, as they were running in joy to tell the others, Jesus startled them with his presence and greeted them as one who knew them and expected to see them. It is important to understand their first response. The text does not tell us if the feet of Jesus were on the ground, but even if Jesus appeared to be floating above them, they had to bow down to take his feet. They felt compelled to worship first. Their joy moved aside to make room for reverence and awe.
That is what this night is about, this Easter Vigil. Together we created fire outside and lit the Paschal Candle. Together we came into the darkened church singing “The Light of Christ.” And responding with our hearts, “Thanks be to God.” From that light, we lit our own candles, each one of us responding in worshipful awe as we rejoiced in the Risen Christ we met kin one another. In a few moments, the Alleluia that has been buried in the dark will spill out uncontrollably into the light. [Trust me—you have no idea!]
We who are lucky enough to live among these mountains (OK, I only live in the foothills, but serving at St. Mark’s gives me bragging rights) have one of the very best images for this hard-to-contain Easter joy, I think. On one of my recent drives over here, I was enjoying a clear blue day, filled with sunshine and not a cloud in sight. We have had a fair amount of rain this spring, and the ground has been beyond the point of saturation. Every curve I navigated that day found me gazing in wonder at waterfall after waterfall, dancing down the rocks, sparkling in the long absent sunshine. The sound of it was so compelling that I actually slowed my speed, put down the windows and opened the sun roof. This was not just shining rocks- though they have a beauty of their own- but huge amounts of water, coming from amazing heights. Often I could not see the source. The water was so abundant and plentiful that it would not be contained.
Our Easter joy is like that. We have moved this night from the darkness of Good Friday, and the false finality of death. We have moved from softly gleaming candle light that kept most of each of us in a separate shadow. Now we stand together in the light of God’s love, so bright and so joyous, that we cannot help but be held in its embrace. We cannot help but let this exuberant love transform each of our own lives, the very lives that Jesus has saved with his own life and death and Resurrection. Indeed, we can feel it growing: the Alleluia that is almost upon us will never be able to be contained, any more than our Lord Jesus could be held within stone.
Amen.
I had the A Team with me- Graff as Crucifer and Shannon as Server. Because in the flurry the elements were on the credence table and had not been put out for the children to bring up, so I let the two smallest come up before Eucharist and assist the server. They were wonderfully reverential, one holding the lavabo and one holding the towel as Shannon poured the water. They felt very included, I think. (Things you can do in a VERY small church!)
So if you are interested, here is the sermon. The Hazard Bulldogs were in the STATE Sweet 16 here in the land of Basketball so a lot of people missed the way of the Cross Friday night and were recovering Saturday night. Those are the bulldog references and the bracketed remark about Alleluia refers to the bells that were so joyously rung later by the children.
***********************************************************************
My dear friend Janet tells an amazing story about one of her family Easter gatherings. Apparently her brother-in-law is a minister (of another denomination) and each Easter would find him leaning wearily on the table, reciting how difficult Holy Week had been for him. “We had services on Palm Sunday, a community service, then Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Then we had two on Sunday. I am so tired. I cannot believe how hard this is. I am so tired!” My friend is one of those amazing people who completes the work of four people in any given day. But she is also compassionate. So she was torn between a logical argument, (such as pointing out that everyone has some crunch time in their work flow,) or just listening for one more year. Suddenly she felt bold enough to look at him directly and say, gently, “Holy week was not much fun for Jesus either.”
Last night at St. Mark’s, we had a service that was “not much fun.” Good Friday is the darkest, most somber and most intense point in the church year. For those who had lived with and learned from Jesus, it felt like the end. It felt even more like the end for them than it did for the Israelites who felt caught between the Egytpians and a seemingly impassable body of water. It felt even more to the followers of Jesus like there was only one outcome possible, than it did for Ezekiel, staring out at a desert full of dry bones. And even for those of us who were here last night, leaving a darkened church in silence and going out into a softly darkening night, it felt like an ending. [To be fair, it likely felt like that at Rupp Arena too. The Dogs had fought so hard against Shelby and now it was all over.] We were awkward conversing with one another; the hope we had been feeling so intensely seemed absent; the night did not feel the same somehow.
But none of these scenarios really were the end of course. When Moses put his hand over the sea, God parted the water so that the Israelites could escape from bondage. In Ezekiel, we hear how God breathed life into the bones, and filled them out with flesh and sinew. The dry bones came to life. Even for the Bulldogs, with only Josh Combs graduating, the promise of next year looms brightly. And for my friend’s brother in law, the words spoken were a new beginning, a spiritual awakening that has fueled him in every Holy Week since then.
So all of these readings and situations echo for us what Mary Magdalene and the other Mary felt when they went to the tomb. They believed that Jesus was gone from them forever. Despite what Jesus had told them, despite what they had observed with Lazarus, the pain of their loss seemed insurmountable. They went to see the tomb anticipating death. They went to the tomb expecting darkness.
But instead, they found light and they found life. *
Suddenly, a great earthquake occurred, and an angel of the Lord was sitting on the stone that he had rolled back away from the tomb. The guards were terrified- the angel looked like lightning in his glaringly white garments. But he calmly told the women not to be afraid. And then, with words that would both address their fear and tell them what they most wanted to know, the angel told them that Jesus was not there. He had not been stolen; the tomb had been guarded. As amazing as it might seem, he was not there because he had been raised from the dead. And as if that were not enough, they would actually get to see him again. “Remember,” they must have said to one another excitedly, “he said he would go ahead of us to Galilee, and now the angel has told us to look for him there.”
We know the story of course. We hear the words every year. But can you FEEL it? Can you imagine their joy as they hurried to do the angel’s bidding? Can you imagine how stunned and delighted they were that just when everything had seemed to be the darkest, the sun was shining and the sky was blue and their hearts were lifted to the Lord in gratitude?
Two thousand years later, we still imagine it. It is the central point of our Christian faith, but it is enormous to comprehend. So we focus on the details. That is especially important when we have Matthew’s version tonight and John’s tomorrow morning. Some scholars focus on the differences found in these details, but they are not important. What is important about keeping all of the Gospel accounts is that we have more details, more impressions and more ways for this amazing gift to each of us from our loving God to enter into our beings and find a home.
Because like the disciples, this is the path on which we can find Jesus. In fact, as they were running in joy to tell the others, Jesus startled them with his presence and greeted them as one who knew them and expected to see them. It is important to understand their first response. The text does not tell us if the feet of Jesus were on the ground, but even if Jesus appeared to be floating above them, they had to bow down to take his feet. They felt compelled to worship first. Their joy moved aside to make room for reverence and awe.
That is what this night is about, this Easter Vigil. Together we created fire outside and lit the Paschal Candle. Together we came into the darkened church singing “The Light of Christ.” And responding with our hearts, “Thanks be to God.” From that light, we lit our own candles, each one of us responding in worshipful awe as we rejoiced in the Risen Christ we met kin one another. In a few moments, the Alleluia that has been buried in the dark will spill out uncontrollably into the light. [Trust me—you have no idea!]
We who are lucky enough to live among these mountains (OK, I only live in the foothills, but serving at St. Mark’s gives me bragging rights) have one of the very best images for this hard-to-contain Easter joy, I think. On one of my recent drives over here, I was enjoying a clear blue day, filled with sunshine and not a cloud in sight. We have had a fair amount of rain this spring, and the ground has been beyond the point of saturation. Every curve I navigated that day found me gazing in wonder at waterfall after waterfall, dancing down the rocks, sparkling in the long absent sunshine. The sound of it was so compelling that I actually slowed my speed, put down the windows and opened the sun roof. This was not just shining rocks- though they have a beauty of their own- but huge amounts of water, coming from amazing heights. Often I could not see the source. The water was so abundant and plentiful that it would not be contained.
Our Easter joy is like that. We have moved this night from the darkness of Good Friday, and the false finality of death. We have moved from softly gleaming candle light that kept most of each of us in a separate shadow. Now we stand together in the light of God’s love, so bright and so joyous, that we cannot help but be held in its embrace. We cannot help but let this exuberant love transform each of our own lives, the very lives that Jesus has saved with his own life and death and Resurrection. Indeed, we can feel it growing: the Alleluia that is almost upon us will never be able to be contained, any more than our Lord Jesus could be held within stone.
Amen.
Comments