A videoed version of this sermon-reflection is available on YouTube.
SERMON PREACHED IN AN UPPER ROOM
TO A COMPUTER AND TO AN INTERNET
FIFTH SUNDAY OF EASTER (May 10th)
2020
READINGS
Acts 7:55-60
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
1 Pet 2:2-10
John 14: 1-14
There is a form of devotional writing known as
“hagiography,” from the Greek adjective “holy” and verb “to write.” Not unique
to the Christian tradition, but certainly a major strand of it, it has inspired
countless Christians through centuries, and continues to be a strand of
Christian writing. I recall at least one biography in which the subject
benignly faces his death, calmly arranging for continuation of the spiritual
affairs under his aegis. It was to meet the author’s needs that the book was
written in this way, and no doubt the needs of most of the readership were
indeed massaged. To face death quietly and calmly speaks volumes of the
tenacity and holiness of the dying person.
In theory. Sometimes the family will, in
private, tell a different story.
There have been times I have disparaged this
kind of writing. Perhaps those times have never ceased: I tend to the brutally
realist in my taste. I have seen enough struggles with dying and death to know
it is no culture of calmness – or at least not unless the wonderful tonics of
palliative care medicines take over, and not always then. I have, as I will
often note, seen peaceful deaths died by atheists, and struggled, angry deaths
died by Christians. It is only natural to tell of brave struggles and peaceful
ends – though this may sometimes be an oxymoron – to aid the grief of those
left behind.
Because that is a real need I am less
disparaging now, though like my erstwhile colleague and “peri-thanatos” theologian
Alister Hendery (whose father, as it happens, buried mine) I feel it is
critical that we acknowledge the brute finality of death, even as we in the
Christian community, hold to a doctrine of resurrection. As I have said
elsewhere, I intend to die, not pass away, cross over, or enter some other room. Again: despite Jesus’ use of the metaphor. Jesus’ own life and teachings make
it clear he does not sidestep harsh realities of pain and separation, but absorbs
them, then generates the resurrection hope that burst through them.
Ours is a faith with death (not passing or
travelling to the other side) at its centre. Jesus is a good moral teacher, one
of countless. From what we can tell his life was exemplary as he lived out a
radical, somewhat revolutionary, somewhat reformatory Judaism. Ignoring the
conspiracy theorists who, for anti-Semitic reasons, want to maintain that Jesus
was not a Jew, Jesus was one of many reformers who emerged in unsettled first
century Palestine. They sought to reform a faith that had become complacent and
complicit. In the chapter before todays's Acts reading we find Gamaliel reminding
the Sanhedrin that the Jesus movement would be ephemeral if it were without
substance and divine blessing. Its longevity – which will survive the current
reforms forced on us by Covid-19 just as it has overcome myriad trials before –
its longevity suggests Gamaliel was onto something (as Luke well knew).
Jesus, while he focuses on issues of social justice,
will address constantly that greatest injustice of all: death. Death,
bereavement, grief. Death is at the heart of his teaching (e.g. John 10:11) and
at the heart of his life (John 12:24-25). Judgement, intimately entwined with death, is
rarely far out of focus in his teaching, too. But judgment, to Jesus, is seen
as encouragement rather than discouraging ramification of his life, death and
resurrection. The judgement of God is good news, not tyrannical doom (John
5:22-24).
Baptism, central embodiment of Jesus’ teaching
(Matt. 28:19) is an enactment. a prefigurement of death, and of something following death. So, in
conversation with his inner sanctum of disciples, he addresses death and dying
yet again. He offers no sidestep, but offers comfort in the face of death: comfort
in the face of his own coming death and his listeners’ and our inevitable
subsequent deaths. To find the fullness of that comfort these verses must be
placed in the context of this whole discourse, delivered as he turns to face
Jerusalem and all that implied for him. The prolonged teaching is inspired by
the departure of Judas, off to initiate his betrayal of the Teacher. In that
dark context (John 13:30) Jesus speaks of his own death and resurrection – that
intangible, incomprehensible something that he will not separate from
death. Jesus steps into the darkest places of betrayal, agony, shame, and only
thereafter breaks out in light and life beyond comprehension. But break out he
does.
In the context of all these dimensions Jesus
speaks of being Way, Truth, Life, and invites us to follow. It is, the context
demands, no cushy invitation, though so far for most of us it has been far
easier than for many Christ-followers around the world today and in the past.
If the Cross stands at the heart of this way,
how do we ensure adherence? Jesus will speak over and again of the coming
Spirit that he calls “Paraclete.” The
hagiographies with which I began indicate that a life spent in adoration and
service of Jesus should end in blessed Spirit-filled peace; Stephen’s execution
reinforces that belief. Yet there are no guarantees. Great hymns speak of
meditating upon Jesus, implying it seems that if we do enough of it our journey
will be rosy, “who dies thus dies well.” Covid-19 is just one reminder that
that is and was never a universal truth. There’s no doubt that many do find
great peace in their own dying. Some will not, and that’s not the point.
The truth John is conveying as he tells the
story is deeper than that. The truth he bears is that even in our fears and
failures, doubts and desertions and betrayals of our faith, even there,
resurrection light will shine like nuclear fission. Our task is, as Brother
Lawrence put it, to practice the presence of resurrection love, light, hope, and
not least to be recalling that there are judgement dimensions attached to
it.
My own naïve images of this scene revolve
around some “oops - sorry moments,” reconciliation in the deepest and most
eternal sense of this fiercely biblical theme. Then – time is such an intrusion
in these images – we find ourselves before and within that overpowering light, where
“the Lamb is the light of the city of God,” as another John put it (and Kathleen Armstrong
Thomerson captured with beautiful simplicity in her hymn[1]).
The Way to which Jesus is not easy, despite being warm with his footprints, and
despite the over-flowing presence of the Spirit-Advocate. But oh what
enrichment that presence is as we stumble through life and death the Lamb-lit
Unseen City.
[1]
Kathleen Armstrong Thomerson (b.
1934), “I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light.” See, e.g. https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/history-of-hymns-i-want-to-walk-as-a-child-of-the-light.
No comments:
Post a Comment