Sermon for Easter Sunday
April 20, 2025
Delivered by the Rev. Dr. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas at St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MA
John 20:1-8
Resurrection: Be the seed
Americans generally don’t put much stock in miracles. We’re a pragmatic, practical, down-to-earth bunch. Give us cold, hard facts, something we can measure, predict, and control. Proof is what we like. Objective evidence. Laws of nature. Give us logic, reason, an orderly universe whose workings are easily grasped by the human mind.
Miracles violate scientific proof. They fly in the face of the laws of nature. They make light of reason and logic, and they blow open the careful constructions of the mind. So, generally, we prefer not to believe in miracles. Maybe we come to church on Easter. Maybe we come to church every Sunday of the year. But we may tell ourselves: “Now, let’s not get carried away. Miracles aren’t real. Jesus didn’t really rise from the dead. That’s obviously impossible. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Maybe some disciples secretly stole the body so that they could point to the empty tomb and claim that Jesus had risen from the dead. Or maybe Jesus was only in a coma when he was taken down from the cross, and he eventually recovered. Or maybe the story of the resurrection is nothing more than a story, just a fantasy, just a legend.”The miracles we usually like best are the ones that are nice and small and safe. They make life pleasant. They don’t give anyone any trouble. We water our plants with Miracle-Gro. We mix our tuna fish with MiracleWhip. We listen to ads touting the latest “miracle” in computer software or laundry detergent or hair replacement. The only miracles that are real, says the market economy, are the “miracles” you can buy in your local store. Miracles are trivial things, consumer items, commodities: buy one, buy several. Stock your shelves. Either miracles are not real, we tell ourselves, or if they are real, they aren’t very important, they don’t matter very much.
Into this world of skepticism and doubt explodes the miracle of the first Easter: an empty tomb, two angels in white. We have no reports of what Jesus’ resurrection looked or sounded like, though some of us imagine it being something like a supernova, an explosion of light. But from our own experience, many of us resonate with what happened to Mary Magdalene in today’s Gospel story from John, which is the most intimate of all the resurrection stories. Many of us know what it’s like to be deep in grief, to weep as Mary did, standing outside the tomb, to feel desolate, hopeless, and lost, and then to be surprised by the sense of a loving Presence nearby. Maybe you felt personally addressed, as if you could hear deep within you, just as Mary Magdalene did, the sound of a voice tenderly saying your name. That’s how quiet and subtle the first stirrings of resurrection can be, coming to us not as a great flash of light but as a voice of love that we hear within us in the stillness of the quiet.1
That’s the beginning of miracle, the beginning of new life, and let me tell you – it’s a miracle that makes a difference, a miracle that the unjust powers and principalities that rule the world tried in vain to prevent in Jesus’ day and that to this day they try to conceal or deny. Why do the unjust powers of this world, the powers of Empire, try to suppress news of resurrection? Because resurrection threatens any society that worships domination and greed, any society in which the billionaire rich grow increasingly rich and sweep aside the safety net that protects those in need, any society whose leaders hoard their privilege and wealth and treat Mother Earth with the same casual disregard with which they treat the vulnerable poor.
Into this world of corruption, chaos, and war walked Jesus, a man of peace, a man so radiant with the all-embracing loving-kindness of God that to be in his presence was to be in the presence of God. He walked a path of non-violent love, teaching, healing, and blessing everyone he met, challenging them to understand that they too were children of God, born to express God’s love in everything they said and did, born to create communities of love in which no one was left out. When at last he confronted the imperial powers, he endured in his own body the brutalities of this world and conveyed until his last breath a spirit of forgiveness and non-violence.
And then, on Easter morning – ah! – something was unleashed into the world, a release of energy, an explosion of light. From out of the empty tomb, from out of our empty souls, the living Spirit of Christ springs forth, breaking open everything that is fearful, clenched, and small, unleashing a love that softens our hearts, melts all barriers, and encompasses all beings.
I love it that today is not only Easter Sunday but also Earth Sunday, the Sunday closest to Earth Day, April 22, when people around the country commit themselves to restoring the planet that we call home. I love it that this year Easter Sunday and Earth Sunday fall on the same day, for our Easter liturgies proclaim that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is good news not only for human beings but also for the whole of Creation – for rivers and mountains, forests and fields, hawks, whales, bats, and bees. At last night’s Great Vigil of Easter, we started by lighting a fire in the darkness, and we listened to Kevin Blanchard chant the ancient words:
Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth,bright with a glorious splendor,for darkness has been vanquished by our eternal King.Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth! Christ is risen!Creation Care banner made by St. Andrew’s Guild (Kathryn Aubry-McAvoy, Diane Kurkulonis, & Molly Scherm) of Ss. James and Andrew Episcopal Church, Greenfield. Pole stand by Jonathan A. Wright, author, artisan, and retired sustainable builder.
I don’t know about you, but I grew up thinking of “spirituality” as completely ethereal. The God I grew up with had no body. Being a good Christian was all about distancing oneself from the body and transcending the body – both my own body and the “body” of the natural world. The natural world and its wild diversity of creatures was essentially irrelevant and dispensable, just the backdrop to what was really important: human beings. Since the time of the Reformation, most of Western Christianity has had little to say – until recently – about the salvation of the natural world and the cosmos, as if only one species, Homo sapiens, were of any real interest to God. So, what a healing it is, what a restoration of the ancient biblical understanding – an understanding that was never forgotten by the indigenous people of the land – to know that the Earth is holy. Its creatures are holy. The whole created world is lit up with the presence of God, the presence of the risen Christ.
Dear friends, if Christ is alive, then we are embraced by a sacred power that can roll away stones, restore the dead to life, and offer meaning and hope in the very places where meaning has fled and hope has died.
If Christ is alive, then into our world a power has been released that is stronger than death, a source of love and energy and hope that nothing and no one can destroy.
If Christ is alive, then there is no suffering we can endure, no anguish we can bear, no loss or disappointment we can undergo that Christ himself does not suffer with us.
If Christ is alive, then each person is beloved and cherished by God, and we are drawn – no, we are summoned – to create new forms of community that overturn the systems of rank, privilege, and domination that divide us from each other and that destroy God’s Creation.
If Christ is alive, then we have no need to settle for a life that is overshadowed by the nagging fear of death, for eternal life does not begin after we die – it begins right here, in this very moment.
If Christ is alive, then we are free to be our largest, truest selves: a people free to be vulnerable, free to be generous, free to fall in love with life.
If Christ is alive, then there is nothing more real than love, nothing more true than love, nothing more enduring than love.
Through the power of resurrection, a great energy has been released into the world, and that power is already at work within us. It springs to new life when we gather to resist the forces of destruction and when we stand up to protect democracy and the rule of law. It springs to new life when we stand with the marginalized and the outcast. It springs to new life when we take time to pray and when we gather around the table to break bread in Jesus’ name. It springs to new life when we speak words that are truthful and kind, and when we treat ourselves and every human being with compassion and respect. It springs to new life when we refuse to abandon and abuse Mother Earth and when we search for ways to re-weave the web of life.
The powers-that-be will always try to stop resurrection. They will try to cancel the miracle, declare it impossible. They will try to shut down the dissidents, tear apart communities, and silence the song of life. But you can’t silence resurrection – not forever, not for long. Spring is on its way. Life will push up from the ground and break through the hard-packed soil of hopelessness and despair. As the old saying goes, “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.”
Be the seed. Practice resurrection.2 It’s not enough to gaze at Christ’s resurrection from afar. Christ is not separate from us. It’s not only his miracle – it’s our miracle, too, a miracle in which each of us is invited to participate every day. Christ has risen to new life – and so have we.
Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
The Lord is Risen, indeed! Alleluia!
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1. “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.” – Howard Thurman
2. Wendell Berry, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” https://allpoetry.com/poem/12622463-Manifesto–The-Mad-Farmer-Liberation-Front-by-Wendell-Berry
Sermon for Maundy Thursday
April 17, 2025
Delivered by the Rev. Dr. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas at St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MA
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Love at the core
Tonight’s service reminds me of a movie that came out a while back. I’ve only seen the trailer, not the movie, but I know it received some pretty dreadful reviews. The movie is named “The Core,” and according to Wikipedia, in a poll of hundreds of scientists about bad science fiction films, “The Core” was voted the worst.1 It may have been an impressively bad movie, but in the context of Holy Week I find the premise of the movie quite interesting. The idea behind the film is that the hot liquid center of the earth has stopped spinning, and the only way to save the planet from complete destruction is for someone to go down there and jumpstart the core by exploding some nuclear warheads. The science may be ridiculous, but isn’t the premise interesting? Here’s what it’s saying: there is a problem at the center of things and the only way to solve it is to bring in massive weapons and blow something up. That can be a pretty satisfying fantasy. If something deep down is wrong, we’ll grab some weapons, unleash a few bombs, and – wham-o! – problem solved. We will have saved the day, saved the world.
In general, I like action movies, but this Hollywood flick is delivering far more than entertainment. It’s also delivering a worldview, one that’s familiar to everyone here. According to this paradigm, our deepest problems can be solved by force. Whatever is ailing us or the world can be fixed by violence. Domination, intimidation, fear – these are the weapons we must use every day if we want any kind of lasting security or peace. When push comes to shove, we’re gonna haul out our arsenal of weapons and let ‘em fly.
Altar prepared for Maundy Thursday service, St. John’s, AshfieldI know what it’s like to jockey for position and to look out for number one. There are many ways to explode our own little power bombs – maybe by name-dropping or boasting or bullying, by spreading gossip or speaking harsh words of judgment, even contempt. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, right? That’s the worldview we learn to call “realistic,” and it’s reinforced every day. In a competitive marketplace, we’re taught that the bottom line is money, power, fame, and individual success. We learn to look at each other with wary eyes. What can I get from you? How can you be useful to me? In the words of Jewish theologian Abraham Heschel, we learn to suspect our neighbors as ourselves.2
Into this anxious and belligerent world comes the one who says, “I am among you as one who serves. My only weapon is love and my only desire is to set you free.” In Jesus, God comes among us as one who renounces worldly power and rejects the grasp for domination and control. Jesus offers a new paradigm and a new worldview: the only way to peace and security is to serve each other, to listen to each other, to make room for the stranger, to reach out to the marginalized and lost. The core of the world can’t be mended by violence. Force and fear will never save the world, much less save our souls. Only love can do that. Only love.
Now, more than ever, we must consider this second worldview and explore its creative possibilities, for evidently our federal government has been captured by the lust for domination and complete control. Under the thumb of domination, many of us – especially those directly targeted by the Administration – now live in fear. We have good reason to be afraid, but, to quote the Sufi poet Hafiz, “Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I’d like to see you in better living conditions.”
Jesus comes to show us the way out of fear, to give us a path to fullness of life. What does he do? “During supper, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him” (John 13:2b-5). This is a gesture of deep humility, the gesture of someone who seeks not to dominate but to serve, not to hoard power but to bless and serve and strengthen those around him. Jesus is living in occupied territory under the boot of the Roman Empire, but he refuses to react to these harsh conditions with fear or force. Instead, he embodies – and he releases among us – a different kind of power, the power of God’s love.
In a moment, we will be invited to re-enact what Jesus did. Anyone who wishes may come forward, take off your shoes, have your feet washed and wash someone else’s feet. For many of us this is a vulnerable moment, a moment, perhaps, of having our dependence on each other uncomfortably exposed. Peter speaks for many of us when he flinches and draws back. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet? You will never wash my feet.” It is hard to be vulnerable, even with people who love us and want to support us. It is especially hard to be vulnerable in a power-hungry world where people elbow each other out of the way in their rush for domination and control. We long for unconditional love, but so often we draw back in embarrassment or suspicion when it is freely offered to us. How much safer to keep other people at a polite distance, to do our best not to need anyone and to go it alone! But that’s what love is about: the willingness to lay aside our weapons and our shields, the willingness to disclose who we really are and to encounter each other with kindness and respect.
Crocuses. Photo by Rachelle Kritzer-FilipekIn a world so bewitched by the drug of force, so addicted to the thrill of domination, we gather tonight, as we do in every Eucharist, inside a different paradigm. Tonight, we proclaim the power of community, the power of service, the power of working for a world in which no one lives in fear. No one. Tonight, we say: This is what God is like. This is the power at the center of reality and the center of our being: the power of love. Fear is not the only force at work in the world today,3 nor will fear have the last word.
Jesus is with us tonight as we wash each other’s feet and as we share in the bread and wine. Tomorrow, he will give himself to us in his outpouring of love on the cross. “Take me,” says Jesus. “I am holding nothing back.” Will we accept his love? Will we follow where he leads? Which path, which paradigm, will we choose?
I’ll close with a poem by Michael Leunig4:
There are only two feelings. Love and fear.
There are only two languages. Love and fear.
There are only two activities. Love and fear.
There are only two motives, two procedures,
two frameworks, two results. Love and fear.
Love and fear.
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1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Core
2. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, quoted by Rabbi Michael Lerner, “Spiritual Politics and the Post-Iraq Realities of Global Discourse,” from a talk given on 3/31/03 and excerpted in an email from the Tikkun Community.
3. Slogan spotted years ago on a poster from United Methodist Church at the Amtrak train station in Stamford, CT.
4. Michael Leunig, A Common Prayer: A Cartoonist Talks to God.
Sermon for Palm Sunday
April 13, 2025
Delivered by the Rev. Dr. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas at St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MA
Luke 19:28-40 (Liturgy of the Palms)
Luke 22:14-23:56
Resistance rooted in love
I’d like to begin where today’s service began – with Jesus’ triumphal procession into Jerusalem, riding on a donkey. As you may know, theologians Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan pointed out with great insight some twenty years ago that this procession is charged not only with spiritual meaning, but also with political meaning. Jesus is heading “to the capital city of his people to confront Roman imperial power and religious collaboration with it.”1 He is heading to Jerusalem to proclaim the power of God’s love over the powers of this world that rule by force and domination.
That’s the procession that we remember every year on Palm Sunday and that we re-enact as we walk into church, palm branches held high. But, as Borg and Crossan point out, today we also remember a second procession that was entering Jerusalem at the same time, at the beginning of the week of Passover. Passover was what they call a “tinderbox time” in Jerusalem,2 when the Jewish people, oppressed and crushed by Roman rule, celebrated their divine liberation from the Egyptian Empire. Riots against the Roman Empire would sometimes break out at Passover, so every year the Roman governor – which, in the time of Jesus, was Pilate – would ride up to Jerusalem from the west, from the imperial capital of Caesarea, in a mighty show of force.
Our theologians invite us to imagine that imperial procession – cavalry on horseback, foot soldiers, banners, weapons gleaming in the sun, the sound of beating drums and marching feet, the smell of dust. Pilate’s procession from the west symbolized Roman imperial power.
By contrast, Jesus entered the city from the east, in what these theologians call a “counterprocession.” Whereas Pilate rode into the city on a war-horse, Jesus entered on a donkey. He chose to ride this humble animal because it recalls the prophet Zechariah, who predicted that the king of peace would come on a donkey (Zechariah 9:9-10). The king of peace would bring an end to war – no more chariots. No more war-horses. No more bowing and scraping. No more empire.
The procession that we re-enact on Palm Sunday is an act of resistance. The scene recorded in Luke’s Gospel in the Liturgy of the Palms sounds a lot like a conversation among people in the underground who plan in advance and speak in passwords to keep their arrangements secret. Jesus tells two of the disciples to go into the village ahead and to find a certain colt (that is, a young donkey), and he says, “If anyone asks you, “‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it’” (Luke 19:30). If you’ve ever been part of a secret plan for non-violent civil disobedience, this is what it sounds like.
So, Palm Sunday presents us with two processions on a collision course: Jesus and Pilate, the Kingdom of God and the kingdom of Caesar.
I thought about this last week when I marched with tens of thousands of people through the streets of Boston. I know that several of you were also in Boston, and that others took part in local protests. Indeed, last Saturday over 1,200 “Hands Off” mass action protests were held across the country. Millions of Americans expressed their protest of what looks to many of us like the beginning of a police state in which opposition is silenced, dissidents are punished, the rule of law is overturned, and power is concentrated in the hands of a few wealthy men.
As I wrote in a blog post about the Boston rally, I rode the bus to Boston and shared the march and rally with Bishop Doug Fisher. I found it particularly moving to walk with him past the Episcopal cathedral in downtown Boston as the crowd slowly made its way up Tremont Street to Boston City Plaza. A big sign outside the cathedral listed the upcoming worship services for Holy Week, starting with Palm Sunday. And here we were, two thousand years later, in our own resolute and peaceful procession to protest Empire. The cathedral’s steps were filled with demonstrators and its doors were open to welcome anyone who wanted a quiet space, a drink of water, a bathroom break, or some words of support or prayer. I was grateful once again for Episcopalians and for all people of faith and goodwill who stand up against tyranny.
We are now entering the holiest days of the Christian calendar and marking the final week of Jesus’ life. Most of us have experienced these services many times and have contemplated many times the story of Jesus’ last days. Every year, through acts of prayerful imagination, we listen to these stories, and we try to visualize what Jesus was enduring and find our own place in the narrative. But this year feels different. This year, the reality of Empire, the reality of the machinery of cruelty and greed, has suddenly become vivid to us, suddenly become real.
I am filled with questions. How did Jesus find the strength – how do we find the strength – to proclaim the sovereignty of God in a society so corrupt and unjust that dissidents can be picked off the streets, detained on bogus charges, subjected to torture and humiliation, and, in Jesus’ case, almost casually executed? How did he – how do we – come to love God and neighbor so passionately that we are willing to give our lives to express that love? How did he – how do we – find the physical and moral courage to keep standing with the outcast and the condemned, to endure great suffering, and yet to maintain a merciful and forgiving heart? These are some of the questions I hold as we enter Holy Week.
I know that Jesus will help us find our way and give us the strength to follow him through this dark time with courage and faithfulness. I invite you to come to all the services and to give yourself the gift of being close to Jesus as we walk with him, and he walks with us.
I’d like to end by sharing a very simple way of praying that has meant a lot to me over the years and that you might find helpful as we walk the way of the love with Jesus. As I imagine it, the cross is not far away in Golgotha or limited to any single place and time. The cross of Christ is planted deep within me, deep within you, and at the cross I can pour out my anger, my fear, my grief, for I trust that at the cross of Christ, everything is perpetually being met by the forgiving love of God. Whatever I need to feel and to express – rage, sorrow, fear, guilt, whatever – all of it is being met by the never-failing, boundless love of God. Everything that we bring to God is transformed at the cross. It’s like alchemy, like piling up food scraps and turning it into good compost. As I see it, crucifixion is the place where God breaks through our numbness and denial and our hearts open wide to love the world in all its suffering and pain, in all its beauty and fragility.
At the cross, we allow ourselves to feel anger – because anger is an expression of love. We allow ourselves to feel emptiness – because emptiness creates a space for something new to arise. We allow ourselves to feel sorrow – because shedding tears can water the soul and bring new life. We allow ourselves to feel fear – for that in itself is an act of courage.3 Praying at the cross is where we can finally face and bear what we find so challenging, and where God in Christ can hold and bear for us what we cannot bear ourselves. Learning to breathe into the cross, allowing the power and love of God to make contact with everything that’s in us, sets us free from being reactive and helps us weave God’s love and strength into our very being.
We are not alone. Jesus is living these days with us and through us. From within your own life, with all its responsibilities, what is yours to do in this precarious time? How is Jesus inviting you to walk the path of love?
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1. Marcus J. Borg and John Dominic Crossan, “Collision Course: Jesus’ Final Week,” Christian Century, March 20, 2007, p. 29. This homily is indebted to these scholars’ work. For a longer treatment, see Marcus J. Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach about Jesus’ Final Days
2. Ibid.
3. I’m indebted to Joanna Macy and Chris Johnstone, Active Hope: How to Face the Mess We’re in without Going Crazy (Novato, California: New World Library, 2012), especially the exercise “Breathing Through,” 73-75. For a more detailed presentation of the prayer that I call “Grounding in the Cross,” see Margaret Bullitt-Jonas, Christ’s Passion, Our Passions: Reflections on the Seven Last Words from the Cross (Cambridge, MA: Cowley Publications, 2002), 9-12.
Crammed inside a boisterous crowd, tucked between raincoats and elbows, strollers, banners, and dogs, with my ears ringing in the din of excited chatter, I couldn’t gauge the size of the throng around me on the Boston Common, much less hear the speakers holding forth from the Parkman Bandstand.
This is a good problem to have. So many thousands of people had gathered from far and wide to join Boston’s protest of the Trump administration that it was impossible from the center of things to get the big picture. I thought of those scenes in War and Peace where soldiers on the battlefield can see only what’s right in front of them. This wasn’t a war – the “Hands Off!” rallies marshalled in Boston and across the country on April 5, 2025, were explicitly intended to be non-violent – but Americans have suddenly been thrust into a high stakes battle. Everything we love and depend on – from clean air, clean water, and a livable climate to public health and public education, from Social Security, Medicare, and gun safety to free speech and human rights, democracy and the rule of law – everything is at risk or already being decimated. Now is the time to fight for what we hold dear.
I helped to organize two buses from Northampton, and at least eleven charter buses drove to Boston from western Massachusetts. I rode with Bishop Doug Fisher of the Episcopal Diocese of Western Massachusetts, and I was glad to march beside him past the Cathedral Church of St. Paul as the crowd slowly made its way up Tremont Street to Boston City Plaza. A big sign outside the Episcopal cathedral listed the upcoming worship services for Holy Week, which begins on Palm Sunday with Jesus’ nonviolent procession into Jerusalem to confront the powers-that-be. Here we were, two thousand years later, in our own resolute and peaceful procession to protest Empire. The cathedral’s steps were filled with demonstrators and its doors were open to welcome anyone who wanted a quiet space, a drink of water, a bathroom break, or some words of support or prayer. I was grateful once again for Episcopalians and all people of faith and goodwill who are standing up to tyranny. I thought of a sign I’d held just a few days before in a multi-faith protest outside a Northampton church: “This Christian is against Christian nationalism.”
It wasn’t until later that I would hear accounts of the millions of people taking part in simultaneous “Hands Off!” protests, see an aerial view of the crowds in downtown Boston, or hear excerpts of the rousing speeches (for that, check out a4-minute news clip from NBC). For now, as I swam in a seemingly endless sea of people moving toward Boston City Hall, I admired the creativity, determination, and resilience expressed in the handmade signs that were bobbing all around me.
One sign was a small poem: Where do I start?
so much wrong
so little cardboard
Another was even shorter: Hell no
One was a single word: No
Some signs were edgy and vulgar, using ridicule to express dissent. To cite one of the tamer examples, a photo of the President was pasted alongside the words: Does this ass makes my sign look big?
Some signs used a broad brush to convey the wrongs: So awful
even introverts are here
Many signs identified particular concerns: Hands off immigrants
Hands off farms and farmworkers
Hands off libraries
(dystopian novels should be fiction)
We need groceries, not Greenland
Medical research saves lives –A Ph.D. in Ebola
Some signs expressed alarm: Wake up America Your house is on fire
If you tolerate this you will be next
America: This is not a drill
Some were chilling: The Holocaust started out
as a mass deportation
Some expressed outrage: They seek safety and dreams Trump gives them cages
Stop pretending your racism is patriotism
Some deployed humor: Be responsible and neuter your DOGE
Clean up on aisle 47
I couldn’t afford to buy a politician
so I made this sign –Proud unpaid protester
Let’s just admit we may have taken this “Anyone can be President” thing a bit too far!
So much destruction
such little hands
Some signs made pithy declarations: Where law ends tyranny begins
No Nazis No kings
The only minorities
destroying our country are billionaires
Trans people should not bother you
more than Nazis
Some signs drew from history to bolster our resistance: They want 1939 Germany
Let’s give them 1789 France
Other signs called upon Boston’s leadership in the War of Independence: Boston:
Throw oligarchy in the harbor
Boston: Making tyrants nervous since 1775
We listened to drummers, and we joined in chants. Patriotism was in the air. Several times our part of the crowd joined in singing “America the Beautiful.” Not long after that, I heard a penny whistle play a merry “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” By now, rain was falling, and the wind was picking up. American flags, large and small, waved in the breeze.
Some of the signs appealed to our highest values: Love is resistance
Make lying wrong again
Empathy is not a weakness
Courage is contagious
I will never obey!!
Some signs were addressed not to the Administration but to fellow people in the crowd: Pace yourself Love yourself This is a marathon, not a sprint
Revolutions never happen If you are sitting on your couch
I noticed one man standing quietly beside a tree as the crowd streamed past. He was holding a small cardboard sign that read Blessed are the meek.
If you want to read an inspiring report on the scope and purpose of the Hands Off! protests, the biggest protests to date of the second Trump administration and the harbinger, God willing, of greater resistance to come, read Rebecca Solnit’s essay, “Millions Stood Up: April 5 Hands Off Day of Action. Among other things, Solnit quotes journalist L.A. Kauffman, who commented, “A massive decentralized movement like this – everywhere all at once, with everybody pitching in – is extremely difficult for any regime, even the most autocratic, to derail. There are too many leaders, coordinating in too many different ways, for a movement like this to be easily neutralized.”
On the day after the “Hands Off” rallies, Christians gathered for Sunday morning worship and heard the words of the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 43:18-19):
Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old.
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I wonder if God’s Spirit is summoning ordinary Americans to do something new – to lay claim to our deepest hopes and highest values, to break out of old patterns, and to build community as we work together for a better world.
In the meantime, I must quote one final sign: No one let go of anyone’s hand.
What if I told you that when you walked into church this morning, you were one sort of person, but that when you walk out after the service, you’re going to be someone new? That you will be changed in a basic way? That’s the promise of the Gospel – that in Christ we enter a process of transformation that quickly or slowly changes who we are. St. Paul makes this clear in today’s epistle: “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Cor. 5:17). As one writer puts it, “That’s a description of earth-shaking change that goes right to the core of our being – something so fundamental that it changes the axis of our entire bearing.”1
“The Prodigal Son” at the altar of St. John’s, AshfieldIn Lent we’re given forty days in which to look closely at the axis of our lives. Where do my thoughts, attitudes, and choices still revolve around my own small self and the anxious, defensive question, “What about me? What’s in it for me?” And where have I begun to find a new axis in the expansive, never-failing love of God and neighbor? Transformation is what we’re up to in Lent – inner transformation that de-centers and de-thrones our little ego and reconciles us to God and neighbor. As St. Paul cries out in today’s epistle: “We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God” (2 Cor. 5: 20).
I can think of no finer story about reconciliation with God and neighbor than today’s parable from the Gospel of Luke. It’s often called the parable of the Prodigal Son, but of course that title isn’t quite accurate, since the parable is really about a loving father who has two sons. Some folks consider it the greatest short story in the world, and it’s certainly one of the best-known and best-loved parables that Jesus ever told.
This morning, I brought in a reproduction of part of Rembrandt’s painting, The Return of the Prodigal Son, which was given to my husband Jonas and me by Henri Nouwen, probably around the time that he was writing his classic book, The Return of the Prodigal Son2 – a book that has inspired thousands of Christians and countless sermons, including this one. The poster is a bit frayed around the edges, since in the course of leading retreats, my husband and I have carried it to many different places, but you can still make out the basic scene: the father is a bearded, nearly blind old man in a red cloak who has placed his large hands on the shoulders of his returning son. The son – half-barefoot, exhausted, his head shaven like that of a prisoner or a survivor of a concentration camp, robbed of his identity – wears no cloak, only torn undergarments. He kneels before the father, and his cheek is nestled against the father’s chest, as if he were listening to the heartbeat of God.
The original oil painting hangs in the Hermitage Museum of St. Petersburg, and it’s much bigger than this poster. In fact, it’s huge – 8 feet high and 6 feet wide – and it includes not only the scene that we see here, the embrace of the father and his wayward younger son; it also portrays the elder son and several other figures standing nearby. It was probably one of Rembrandt’s last works, painted when the artist was close to death.
The story starts like this: “There was a man who had two sons” (Luke 15:11). We don’t know why, but for some reason the younger son decides to go it alone. He’s itching to leave, to hit the road and do things his own way. He asks his father to give him his portion of his inheritance in advance – a quite presumptuous and irregular thing to do in that culture – and off he goes, money in hand, to what the story calls “a distant country” (Luke 15:13), where he squanders it all in “dissolute living” and eventually goes hungry. Desperate, he hires himself out in a job considered shameful: he feeds pigs, which are unclean animals according to Jewish law. Humiliated and close to starving, he wishes he could eat the very pods or corncobs that the pigs consume. That part of the story ends with the awful words that ring like a death sentence: “No one gave him anything” (Luke 15:16). He is entirely alone.
Let’s push the pause button and stop for a moment. I identify with this first part of the story and maybe you do, too. I know what it’s like – as maybe you do, too – to choose the go-it-alone path, the I-don’t-need-God path, the rebellious path that the Twelve-Step program calls “self-will run riot.” I’ve been there, done that, and maybe you have, too. We can do it for brief moments every day, and we can do it for long stretches of our lives. Whenever we choose that path, we leave our home in God – that place within ourselves where we feel seen and known and loved. Renouncing love, forsaking God and neighbor, we seize what we can for ourselves, and we do what we darn well please – the consequences be damned.
There are many ways to wind up in a distant country far from home, knowing we’ve betrayed our better selves. Somewhere along the way we took a wrong turn or made a bad choice, and now here we are, as isolated and desolate as the prodigal son with the pigs, feeling helpless and full of self-reproach. Lent is a good season for reflecting on how we as individuals have abandoned or rejected the God of love and squandered our inheritance – not to wallow in guilt, but to take a frank and fearless stock of our lives in the presence of the Holy One who heals. As it says in a poignant prayer of confession in the Book of Common Prayer, we know what’s it’s like to “[wander] far in a land that is waste.”3
But it’s not only we as individuals who can wander far in a land that is waste – whole societies can do that, too. The path that most of humanity has taken for the last two hundred years has brought us to a situation in which the web of life is unraveling before our eyes. Great populations of creatures – even entire species – have vanished. Global temperatures keep rising as we keep burning fossil fuels, and the current Administrations seems hell-bent on accelerating that deathly process, taking a chainsaw to the norms and laws that maintain democracy and keep the fabric of society knit together.
Is our society like the prodigal son, wandering far in a land that is waste? It sure feels that way. So how sweet it is to reach the story’s next line, its turning point: “When he came to himself…” (Luke 15:17). The young man comes to himself, he turns, and he starts to travel home. That’s such a great line: “He came to himself.” It’s as if he began to wake up, he began to break through the spell, he remembered who he was: someone created to love himself and his neighbor, to love the natural world, to love God. When we come to ourselves, we begin to make the journey home to God. Our basic nature, our truest nature, is found as we turn and head toward God, our divine Father and Mother, the lover of our souls and the source of all life.
What would it look like if we, as a society, “came to ourselves”? Maybe it would mean turning away from the illusion that we are separate from each other and must go it alone. Maybe it would mean taking hold of the truth that we belong to each other, that we belong to the Earth that sustains everything that lives, that we are made for connection and community. I can think of no more beautiful way to spend one’s life than to take part in what leaders like Joanna Macy and David C. Korten call the Great Turning, the epic transition from a deathly society to one that fosters life. That’s what philosopher Thomas Berry called the Great Work: our wholehearted effort to create a more just and sustainable world. And that’s what Archbishop Desmond Tutu called the “supreme work” of Jesus Christ: to reconcile us to God and to each other and to the whole of God’s Creation.4
In a time of such divisiveness and uncertainty, it’s powerful to remember that God loves it when we come to ourselves and begin the journey home to God. God gets happy when we make that turn, even if we’ve still got a long way to go. That’s what we see in the next part of the parable: The father, who seems to have been waiting eagerly for his son’s return, catches sight of him while he is “still far off.” “Filled with compassion” (Luke 15:20), he runs out to greet him. It’s completely undignified, this decisive moment when the old man hikes his robe above his shins and runs, breathing hard, sandals slapping and forehead perspiring, until he reaches his son and catches him up in his arms.
That moment of reunion is the one that Rembrandt portrays. It is a wordless moment, a moment of enormous stillness, in which the gentle arms of the father embrace the repentant son and draw him close. Can you imagine those kind hands on your shoulders? Can you imagine your face sheltered in the shadow of that warm red cloak, resting against the father’s loving heart? Our souls long for that experience of acceptance, forgiveness, and reconciliation. We may need to gaze at that scene for a long time until we can really take it in.
The repentant son tries to launch into his long apology, but the father will have none of it. He wants to throw a party. It’s all about joy – the father’s joy and the joy of the repentant son. Meanwhile, in the painting, the elder son, who resents his young and dissolute brother, stands in the shadows. He feels left out of the party, when – hey! – he was the brother who did everything right! He followed the rules! It’s not fair! But he, too, is deeply loved and invited to the table to share in the joy.
“My son,” says the father to the angry elder son, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours” (Luke 15:31). “Come home,” the father is saying. “I have always loved you, and my love for your brother in no way diminishes my love for you.”
That’s the scandal of the father’s love – and the scandal of the Eucharist, as well – for everyone is welcome to the feast, prodigal and respectable alike, all of us equally needing and equally embraced by the unconditional love of God. It’s a meal that can transform our consciousness and shift the axis of the self, so that we discover our center, our true self, in the unmerited and boundless love of God.
So – as a Celtic prayer puts it – come to the table of Christ, “you who feel weak and unworthy, you who come often and you who have stayed away. Come, you who love him and you who wish you could. Come, you who are hungry for friendship or forgiveness. Come, you who long for meaning or a just world.”5
Come. The Father is waiting for you, arms outstretched.
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1. Ronald H. Love, “Are we willing to throw a feast?”, SermonSuite.
2. Henri J.M Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Meditation on Fathers, Brothers, and Sons (NY: Doubleday, 1992).
3. The Book of Common Prayer (The Seabury Press, 1979), 450.
4. Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Foreword, The Green Bible, New Revised Standard Version (New York: HarperOne, HarperCollins, 2008), I-14
5. Ray Simpson, Healing the Land: Natural Seasons, Sacraments, and Special Services, The Celtic Prayer Book, Volume 3 (Suffolk, England: Kevin Mayhew, 2004), 154, based on a prayer of the Iona Community.
Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? (Isaiah 58:6)
When my friend Bishop Mark Beckwith invited me to join him every Wednesday this Lent in a Sabbath fast from food, finance, and media,1 my first reaction was to flinch. I do not fast casually. I am in long-term recovery from an eating disorder that included long bouts of fasting. I know what it’s like to restrict food in a willful, desperate, and ultimately futile effort to regain control. Fasting to punish myself, to compensate for compulsive binges, or to lose weight gave me no path to freedom – quite the contrary. It only tightened addiction’s grip on my body and spirit.
Nevertheless, the forty days of Lent are traditionally a season for “self-examination and repentance,” “prayer, fasting, and self-denial,” and “reading and meditating on God’s holy Word.” Over decades of recovery I’ve discovered that fasting with a spiritual purpose can be a powerful tool for personal transformation. What’s more, in this nerve-wracking, bone-chilling, heart-breaking era of cruelty and chaos, with no end in sight, it’s time to reclaim the ancient practice of fasting.
I decided to join Bishop Mark this Lent in a weekly fast from eating, engaging in economic activity, and reading, watching, or listening to the news.
Why do I – why do we, why does anyone – carry out such a fast?
We fast to break out of the habits and routines of daily life and to say that something matters more than business as usual. Business as usual must stop.
We fast to break through the paralysis of disengagement and despair.
We fast to awaken from the trance of daily life and to regain our interior lives.
We fast to see through the illusions of an addictive culture inflamed by pleonexia, the Greek word for “a passion for more, an insatiability for more of what I already have.” Even if we hate shopping, it’s easy to be seduced by the notion that if we feel restless or uncomfortable, we should buy something. The purpose of advertising is not only to persuade us to buy one object or another, but also to create a climate of craving. What if we acknowledged the truth of the poet’s cry, “The world is too much with us; late and soon / Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers”?2 What if we refused to let production and consumption define our lives?
We fast to listen closely to ourselves, to drop below the strident commercialism of the mall and the marketplace, below the cash register’s loud ka-ching! and the quiet click of a credit card sliding into place. We fast to listen to the deeper hungers of our hearts.
We fast to step away from the relentless onslaught of news primed to deliver outrage and shock.
We fast to give ourselves space to honor our pain for the world, which, as Joanna Macy has told us time and again, is how we develop compassion, the willingness and capacity to “suffer with.” She writes, “Of all the dangers we face, from climate chaos to nuclear war, none is so great as the deadening of our response.”
We fast to grieve and to mourn, praying our way through our anger, sorrow, and fear. We fast to admit our mortality and vulnerability, and our radical uncertainty about the future.
We fast to recognize our dependence on the grace of God and on the gift of the next breath.
We fast to listen in silence, with full attention. When the clamor of our minds has stilled, might we hear the silent melody of a deeper, subtler and more enduring song, a love song between God and the whole created order, between God and the soul?
We fast to attune ourselves to the love that wants to be the center of our lives.
We fast to purify ourselves. We fast to express repentance and remorse for the ways we have participated in, colluded with, and benefited from a system that is killing life.
We fast as an act of protest, longing to express in and through our bodies our grief and moral outrage that corporate and political powers are tearing this country and this planet apart. We fast to protest systems that privilege billionaires, crush the poor, and devour the Earth and all her communities. Many social-justice Christians have signed a pledge circulated by Faithful America to join a Lenten fast from pro-Trump corporations. We refuse to buy anything from corporations that have allied with Trump “through political contributions, removing Diversity, Equity and Inclusion policies, or placing their CEOs in powerful positions of government.” (You can find more information here.)
We fast to proclaim that another world is possible. We fast to share in the yearning of the whole Creation for redemption and restoration (Romans 8:22).
We fast to stand with everyone who is hungry, especially those whose stomachs are empty because of poverty, injustice, or a changing climate, where drought or heat have withered crops or where extreme storms and rising seas have destroyed homes.
We join our hunger to the hunger of every living being, human and more-than-human, that hungers for life and a healthy, peaceful, and habitable planet.
Our hunger pangs invite us to hunger for what really matters.
We fast to prepare ourselves for the work that lies ahead.
We fast because, as Karl Barth once said, “The contemplative who can stand back from a situation and see it for what it is, is more threatening to an unjust social system than the frenzied activist who is so involved in the situation that he [she] cannot see clearly at all.”
Friends, I am glad to be with you tonight as we observe Ash Wednesday and enter the Lenten season. In this time of political turmoil, it is especially precious to step into a season that invites reflection, repentance, and the recognition that we depend on the mercy of God.
Tonight’s reading from the prophet Isaiah makes it abundantly clear that living in alignment with God’s purposes is crucial not only for us as individuals but also for how we live together in society. The passage resounds with moral clarity: a nation may pretend to practice righteousness; it may claim to be drawing close to God; it may try to cloak its acts of injustice under the mantle of religion, but if people are in fact serving only their own interests, if the economic system is unjust and oppressive, if people refuse to share food with the hungry or provide shelter for the unhoused, then society has lost its moral compass and is rebelling against God. By contrast, in a society marked by justice and by the readiness to satisfy the needs of those in need, then – oh, what beautiful words! – “your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly… [Y]ou shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail… Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt… [You] shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in” (Isaiah 58:8a, 11b, 12b).
Winter shadows, AshfieldRepairers of the Breach is a national organization that takes its name from this passage from Isaiah. Inspired by Isaiah and the whole prophetic tradition, Repairers of the Breach aims to “[train] moral leaders and [build] social justice movements” that uplift “our deepest moral and constitutional values.” I’m glad to say that this morning, Repairers of the Breach, led by its founder, Bishop William J. Barber II, gathered clergy and faith leaders at an Episcopal church in Washington, D.C., for an Ash Wednesday National Call for Repentance and Truth-Telling. They called on our nation to “turn away from injustice, apathy, corruption, and oppression and recommit to the path of righteousness, truth, justice, and love.” After lament and prayer, they held a procession from the Supreme Court to the U.S. Capitol. Now that’s a meaningful public way to launch the 40 days of Lent!
But Lent also has a very private and personal side. Because we want to be close to Jesus, this season is a precious time to look closely at our lives and to ask God to help us see where we have not been living in right relationship with ourselves, with our neighbors, with the living world around us, and with God.
I’d like to say a word about two impulses that can spur that vital inner work: guilt and desire. Guilt is that uncomfortable feeling we get when we recognize that we haven’t been true to our deep self. We haven’t allowed God’s love to flow freely through us. In one way or another we’ve blocked that flow, as if piling rocks in a river. It’s easy to see what happens when a society is overtaken by greed, hardness of heart, and the grab for power – we’re witnessing it right now. But what happens when these energies overtake us? Can we stop to look closely at what’s going on? Can we ask God to give us strength to amend our lives?
Facing ourselves in the intimacy of our hearts is interior, solitary, and sometimes painful work. As Jesus observes in today’s Gospel, our spiritual practices are not for parading “before others in order to be seen by them” (Matthew 6:1). When we give alms or fast or pray, we don’t look for admiration and praise and “sound a trumpet before [us], as the hypocrites do” (Matthew 6:2). Rather, in the secrecy of our hearts we come before God in our weakness and need, trusting in God’s mercy.
I have to say that, as difficult as it may be, there is something wonderful – even liberating – in acknowledging our guilt. Admitting one’s sin is a great relief to the psyche, for at last we are released from the exhausting effort to keep presenting ourselves to ourselves and to others in the best possible light. At last, we can stop working so hard to shore up our self-image and can instead admit to ourselves, to others, and to God that in some ways we’ve failed, we’ve blown it. We are mortal, we are fallible, we have limits, and we’ve made mistakes, even dreadful mistakes. The more we grow in spiritual awareness and maturity, the more we will likely become even more sensitive to the darkness within ourselves. Teresa of Avila suggested the image of a glass of water held up to the light: when the light is bright, the motes of dirt in the water can be seen clearly. In the light of God’s presence, we can see more clearly how we’ve not been acting in loving ways.
But if Lent is motivated only by our failings, then we risk becoming increasingly self-hating, self-rejecting, and self-absorbed. Dwelling only on our guilt can slide us into a kind of depressive swamp, in which we become tempted to self-centeredness and despair. That’s why in some circles Lent has gotten a bad rap as nothing more than a morbid season in which to beat ourselves up.
So, alongside guilt, I want to highlight the other great motivator of the spiritual quest: desire. “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth,” Jesus tells us tonight, “but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven. . . For where your treasure is, there your hearts will be also” (Matthew 6:19a, 20a, 21). Jesus is speaking here in the language of desire. What is most precious to you? What do you love most? To what, to whom, do you ultimately want to give your life? Jesus is seeking to arouse desire is us, to make us restless with the puny identity that our culture gives us: consumers who want only to be entertained, distracted, well-fed, and comfortable. Jesus longs to generate in us a kind of holy impatience, a longing for real transformation. Deep down, something in us wants to awaken, to come alive, to fall in love with life and with the divine Source of life. Something within us wants us to grow. Sin is sometimes defined as the refusal to grow, as the stubborn insistence on staying the same and on separating ourselves from the love that is always available to us.
I invite us to take hold of these forty days as a gift to strengthen and support our journey of transformation. Some Lenten practices directly address guilt: we can ask God to guide us in fearless, honest self-examination. We may want to make a sacramental confession and to make amends. Yet some Lenten practices may be better framed in terms of desire. From a yearning to draw closer to God, many of us will renew our intention to set aside time for daily prayer. To sharpen our desire for God and to open ourselves to the flow of God’s love, some of us will fast, since every pang of hunger can remind us of our deeper hunger for God. Of course, fasting can take many forms, such as fasting from gossip or complaining, from carbon or from single-use plastic.
Some of us in the Diocese of Western Massachusetts will carry out a particular kind of Lenten fast this year, inspired by the work of Walter Brueggeman, who is one of today’s most influential Old Testament scholars. In his book Sabbath as Resistance, Brueggeman critiques a society in which production and consumption define our lives. So, our plan is to step out of that production-consumption economy every Wednesday in Lent and to fast from food, media, and finance.1 Maybe you’d like to join us.
God loved us into being and God longs to draw us close. When guilt or sorrow spur us to repentance: Thanks be to God. When desire for fullness of life pulls us forward: Thanks be to God. And for the God whose love embraces us every day of our lives and who will gather us home at our journey’s end: Thanks be to God.
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“Love your enemies” (Luke 6:27). That’s got to be one of the most distinctive, startling, and difficult things that Jesus ever said. The whole first sentence of today’s Gospel passage is worth re-reading: “Jesus said, “I say to you that listen, ‘Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.’” What happens inside you when you hear Jesus make this appeal? How do you receive this message in such a chaotic and frightening time? It’s not so easy to love our enemies these days – not that it’s ever been easy, but the new political reality into which this country has suddenly been plunged makes Jesus’ message even more demanding.
A sign at the Presidents Day rally held in Springfield, MA, February 17, 2025Over the past four weeks the impact of the current Administration has been compared by critics and supporters alike to a natural disaster. With approval or disapproval, people in this country and abroad have compared our newly elected leaders to a tornado, a tempest, a flood, a tsunami, a volcanic eruption, and an earthquake. This Administration is forcibly pushing aside whatever stands in its way, breaking down and emptying out the structures in its path, and rapidly re-shaping the landscape. Just about everything we care about is under threat: clean energy and a stable climate, public health, public education, medical and scientific research, immigrants and refugees, racial justice, gender justice, economic justice, human rights, the rule of law – the list goes on. I’m guessing that many of us in this room know someone who’s already been affected.
Love your enemies? Our response might well be, “I don’t think so! That’s an impossibly high bar, and not even a desirable one, when people and communities I care about, and values I hold dear, are being trampled and cast aside.” What’s circulating in many of us – including me – are feelings like anger, shock, anxiety, overwhelm, maybe even despair. Being asked to love our enemies can sound hopelessly sentimental, naïve and weak, out of step with the world’s harshness, out of touch with reality.
Research tells us that we humans react like other animals when we perceive danger. When we’re in a stressful or traumatic situation, our nervous system quickly – almost instantaneously – triggers one of four defense mechanisms to protect us: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.1 When we fight, we feel intensely angry, we act aggressively, we fight fire with fire. Cut me off in traffic? I’ll cut you off. Insult me? I’ll insult you back, but louder. Tit for tat, an eye for an eye, and before long the whole thing escalates into the world we see before us, the dog-eat-dog world of violence and war. I can’t help thinking of the anecdote about a parent who hears the kids squabbling and asks, “Hey, what’s going on? Who started this?” One child looks up, righteous and aggrieved, and says, “It all started when he hit me back.” That’s how it works, right? We’re practically hard-wired to react with aggression when someone threatens us, and it’s a snap to blame someone else for starting the fight.
Rather than fight in the face of danger, we may instead feel an instinctive impulse to flee – we just want to get out of there, to leave, to run away. When fight or flight doesn’t seem like an option, we may freeze in place, as threatened animals sometimes do – we “play dead”; we shut down emotionally; we feel numb or confused or as if we can’t move; we hold our breath. Or, as a fourth reaction, we may feel the impulse to fawn: that’s when we try to placate and please the one who is threatening or abusing us; we play “nice”; we do what we’re told; we pretend to agree; we kiss the ring.
Fight, flight, freeze, or fawn are all normal, involuntary, and immediate reactions to stress, triggered by fear and the wish to survive and stay safe. Much of our country is experiencing trauma right now, so it’s no wonder that many of us are freaking out and getting stuck in emotional reactivity.
Jesus was just as human as we are, and I’m guessing that he experienced these reactions, too, and with good reason: he was living in a time even more dangerous than ours, when the Roman Empire was occupying his homeland and ruling with an iron fist. Yet Jesus showed us another way. He could see that bouncing around on turbulent waves of fear and emotional reactivity left people adrift, thrashing about and drowning in a sea of endless suffering and violence. Jesus learned to live below those waves, from a deeper, quieter, calmer place, in union with the God he called Father. Love your enemies, he said – don’t go after them tooth and nail. Don’t be overcome by fear.
Why should we love our enemies? Because God loves them. Because God’s love is expansive, extravagant, and (to our possible annoyance) all-inclusive.2 As Jesus puts it in today’s Gospel text from Luke, “[God] is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked” (Luke 6:35). Jesus makes the same point in Matthew’s Gospel: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you… for [God] makes [the] sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45). Like sunshine and rain, God’s boundless love is freely offered to everyone, without weighing their merit. God’s love embraces not only the people we love but also the people we reject and hate. As Anne Lamott puts it, “You can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”
But loving our enemies doesn’t mean that we passively acquiesce to evil or injustice and become pious doormats. Far from it. What it does mean is that our activism and our efforts to heal and transform the world, our efforts to stop the harm and redress the wrong, come from a deeper, more grounded place. That’s where all the world’s great nonviolent movements for social justice have come from – from the discovery that beneath those agitated waves of fear and anger, there is a holy Love that is infinitely greater than our own small selves, a Love that bestows dignity on every human being and that sets us free from our own reactivity. Rooted in that love, we find strength for creative, nonviolent moral witness. We are less tempted to demonize each other and less prone to mirror the behavior of our enemy. We don’t have to react so automatically and blindly to anger with anger, to hatred with hatred. We learn not to react but to respond.
How do we live from that deeper, freer place? We learn to listen. I find it interesting that at the beginning of today’s Gospel passage, Jesus says explicitly that he is speaking to those who listen: “I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you…” Listening to his voice inside us is a discipline, a spiritual practice, as we pause to notice the impulses and the feelings that are swirling through us, give them space and a good hearing, and keep listening for the inner voice of love that is always sounding in our hearts. Because “[God] is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked,” we can feel free in prayer to be real with God: to confess and to share not only the parts of ourselves that we like and are proud of, the parts that we consider noble and good, but also the parts of ourselves that we’d much rather project onto our enemies – our murderous rage, for instance, our greed, our desire to dominate. Everything that we see outside us is also inside us – there is a Hitler inside us, and, yes, there is likewise an inner Trump – and our spiritual work is to keep making those parts of ourselves conscious, to keep offering them to God for healing, and to keep letting Love shape us and guide us and order our steps.
A banner outside St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MA, reads “Immigrants and refugees welcome“For those of us who’ve been reeling with anger and fear, today’s psalm is worth praying through slowly, with its wonderful refrain repeated three times: “Do not fret yourself because of evildoers… Do not fret yourself over the one who prospers… Do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil” (Psalm 37:1a, 8a, 9b). How do we learn not to fret? The answer is hidden in verse 7, in the center of the psalm: “Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him” (Psalm 37:7). In stillness and silence, we wait for God to speak. We place our trust in the One who is always with us and who will never let us go, no matter what happens. When our actions spring from that kind of inner assurance and security, what we do is more likely to be effective and wise.
Whether we know it or not, God is at work behind the scenes and can take what was meant for harm and use it for good. That’s the crux of the story from Genesis: Joseph’s brothers did something evil when they sold him into slavery in Egypt, but now, years later, Joseph can see that God overcame their evil, setting Joseph on a circuitous path that resulted in his being able to provide plenty of food amidst a famine. When Joseph encounters his enemies again – in this case, his own brothers – rather than seek vengeance and retribution, he can love and forgive them, because he trusts in the providential care of God.
That’s how God’s love works, surprising us with the power to forgive, and blessing us with the longing, as John Wesley put it, to:
Do all the good [we] can,
By all the means [we] can,
In all the ways [we] can,
In all the places [we] can,
At all the times [we] can,
To all the people [we] can,
As long as ever [we] can.
There will be plenty to do in the days ahead as we look for ways to express the love of Christ and respond to the forces that have been unleashed in this country. The push for social change has historically included economic boycotts, and a campaign is building on social media to urge Americans not to buy anything from major retailers, online or in-person, this Friday, February 28, for 24 hours.3 This one-day, nationwide economic blackout is particularly aimed at large corporations that rolled back their commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion. It will be followed in March and April by several week-long boycotts of national chains like Amazon and Walmart.
Are we witnessing the first stirrings of a massive movement? I don’t know. What I do know is that we are children of God, made in God’s image, and that, with reverence for ourselves and for all created beings, God’s love can flow in powerful ways through our hands and eyes and words and choices.
To stay centered, day by day we can give ourselves the gift of stillness. We can listen inwardly and ask to be guided by what Dante calls “the love that moves the sun and the other stars.”4 Let’s take a moment of silence now, to rest in that love.
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1. Sarah Schuster, “The 4 Trauma Responses: Fight, Flight, Freeze, and Fawn,” updated October 17, 2023.
2. C.f. Walter Wink, Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 266-267. Wink calls loving our enemies “the acid test” of Christianity.
3. Ashley Parks, “Will Nationwide Economic Blackout on February 28 Work?”, Newsweek, February 13, 2025.
4. Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy: Cantica Three, Paradise, trans. Dorothy L. Sayers and Barbara Reynolds, Canto XXXIII, line 145 (Baltimore, MD: Penguin Books, 1962), 347.
Sermon for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 26, 2025
Delivered by the Rev. Dr. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas at St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MA
Psalm 19
Luke 4:14-21
Fulfilled today in our hearing
Friends, before I say anything else I want to say how blessed I am to be with you this morning as preacher and celebrant. I’ve worshiped at St. John’s on and off since 1998, when my husband Jonas and I bought a house in Ashfield and began spending part of our summers here. When I finally left parish ministry and began serving the diocese as Missioner for Creation Care, this church gradually became the place on Sunday mornings where I most wanted to pray when I wasn’t on the road. And now I’ve retired, so here I am! It is good to be with you.
I especially treasure the opportunity to preach sometimes over the next few months because things are changing fast. It’s been quite a week. We’ve entered a new era in our life as a nation. In this uncertain time, filled with so much worry and woe, I am grateful to have an opportunity to reflect on how God is calling us to live out our faith. As we just sang, “I want to walk as a child of the light. I want to follow Jesus.”1 How do we follow Jesus in “such a time as this” (Esther 4:14)?
Our readings this morning have a thing or two to say about that. Let’s begin with the psalm. As you know, I’ve devoted much of my ministry to speaking about God’s love for the whole Creation and about our Christian calling to protect the web of life. So, I rejoice that the opening lines of today’s psalm proclaim the sacredness of the natural world (Psalm 19:1-4):
“The heavens declare the glory of God,*
and the firmament shows [God’s] handiwork.
One day tells its tale to another,*
and one night imparts knowledge to another.
Although they have no words or language,”
and their voices are not heard,
Their sound has gone out into all lands,*
and their message to the ends of the world.”
St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ashfield, MAThe psalmist knows that the living world declares God’s glory and conveys God’s presence. We’ve been trained by our culture to view the natural world as little more than objects or resources for us to use and exploit, whereas the Bible insists that the Earth belongs to God and is alive with God’s presence. When we gather to worship God inside this building, our worship is joining the worship already going on outside, in the wind and sunlight, in trees and streams. God comes to us through the natural world, so it’s not surprising that many of us, in times of anguish or stress, find solace in turning our attention away from the noise of human chatter and conflict and toward the silence of wild creatures and landscapes. The other night, when I couldn’t sleep, I got up and spent a long time watching the moon rise over the ridge beside our house. In her calm and silvery light, I felt God’s presence and I felt God’s peace, and I praised God with a grateful heart.
Because our faith and experience link God to the natural world, it’s deeply disturbing to witness its destruction. It hurts. When a new Administration comes to power and immediately withdraws from the Paris Climate Agreement; when it rolls back climate protections, ramps up domestic drilling, and spurns clean energy; when it turns a blind eye to the signs of Mother Earth’s distress, spoken in the language of massive wildfires and droughts, flooding and heat, my heart breaks with outrage and sorrow. Maybe yours does, too. The web of life upon which all our lives depend is fraying, and so, too, is the social fabric that knits our country together.
So, let’s turn to the passage from Luke’s Gospel, which comes like medicine to our weary souls. Jesus, “filled with the power of the Spirit” (Luke 4:14), returns from forty days in the wilderness and begins to teach in the synagogues of Galilee. You’ll remember that he was baptized just weeks before in the Jordan River, where the Holy Spirit descended upon him and a voice from heaven told him, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22). The same loving Spirit drives Jesus out into the wilderness to face his temptations and to renounce the self-centered patterns of thought or behavior that could pull him off course. By the time Jesus returns to his hometown of Nazareth, he has purified his intention to give himself wholeheartedly to serving God.
The Gospel passage tells us that in Nazareth Jesus goes to the synagogue on the sabbath day, “as was his custom” (Luke 4:16). It’s clear that Jesus was a faithful Jew who shared in the liturgical life of his community. Synagogues generally had no professional rabbis; instead, the person presiding at the service would ask some respected person in the congregation to speak. Jesus was invited to teach that day, and so our scene unfolds.
The congregation watches as he stands up and receives the scroll. They watch him unroll it and find a passage from chapter 61 of the prophet Isaiah. The congregation listens as Jesus reads aloud. Maybe we can imagine the quiet authority in his voice as he reads: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18). The congregation watches as he rolls the scroll back up, hands it back to the attendant, and sits down – as was the custom of the time – before he begins his sermon. The eyes of everyone in the synagogue are fixed on Jesus as they wait in silence for him to speak.
What does he say? It’s probably the world’s shortest sermon: “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (Luke 4:21). I suppose I could have spoken that sentence from the pulpit this morning and left it at that. I imagine something like a surge of energy being released around the room when Jesus said those words. Today the Scripture has been fulfilled, he says – not some other day, not some distant day, not some moment in the far-off future, but today, this very day, the Scripture has been fulfilled. To fulfill is to make actual, to bring to completion. Today this Scripture has been fulfilled, a fulfillment that his listeners have been ardently awaiting for years, for decades, for generation upon generation. The people of God – and the whole Creation – have long been waiting for the Messiah to come, waiting with expectation for the anointed one who will come at last to heal the broken-hearted and bring good news to the poor, to liberate the captives and give sight to the blind. Our weary, weary world has been longing forever for fulfillment – “groaning,” as St. Paul says in Romans (Romans 8:22-23) – as it waits to be made whole and to be set free, suffering like a woman in childbirth as it waits for an end to brutality and injustice, to war and natural disaster, and for the coming of peace, for the sounds of harmony and laughter.
“Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” I take this as Jesus’ mission statement, as Jesus’ announcement of who he is and why he’s come, in essence the same declaration which he expresses in the Gospel of John as “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). Jesus has been anointed by the Spirit to bring good news to the poor, to give sight to the blind, to proclaim release to the captives. He knows who he is – the Beloved of God – and he knows why he’s here and what he’s been sent here to do. Everything he does from this point on – preaching, teaching, healing, standing up to the unjust powers of this world, suffering, dying – everything he does will be for the sake of his mission, following that true north on his compass. His whole ministry will flow from this inaugural sermon and its vision of carrying out God’s mission of healing and reconciling and setting free.
Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in our hearing. Today is our day to claim our identity in Christ as the beloved of God, our day to affirm that we, too, have been anointed in baptism and are filled with the same Spirit with which Jesus was anointed and filled. We listen to the same inner voice of love to which Jesus listened. And we are sent out, as Jesus was sent out, to embody and make real the healing and liberating presence of God. It’s in dark times like these that we pray, “Shine in our hearts, Lord Jesus,”2 and, with whatever light we’ve been given, we find a way to serve and to set free.
I’ve never been prouder of, or more grateful for, the Episcopal Church than I’ve been this week. Shortly after the new President took office and began issuing executive orders related to deporting undocumented immigrants and restricting asylum, the top leaders of our Church sent a letter to the church affirming our Christian commitment to welcoming the stranger and protecting the most vulnerable among us. And I don’t think I will ever forget the moment when Bishop Mariann Budde paused on Tuesday during her sermon at the Washington National Cathedral, took a breath, looked directly at the President, and made a heartfelt appeal for him to have mercy on gay, lesbian, and transgender communities and on undocumented immigrants. If you haven’t yet watched her sermon online, I hope you will. It’s available on the National Cathedral’s YouTube channel This is what following Jesus looks like. This is what nonviolent resistance looks like.
Snow in forestLiving out our Christian calling can be risky and can be costly – indeed, just moments after Jesus finishes his sermon, the congregation runs him out of town and almost throws him over a cliff (Luke 4:28-30). But Jesus is undeterred. God willing, we will be, too. We can do difficult things when we feel led by the Holy Spirit.
I’ll close with three brief suggestions.
Here’s one: protect your inner stillness. Guard the peace within your heart. Do what you need to do – gaze at the moon, study the hills, feel the wind on your face. Listen to music. Breathe in the love of God. Taking time to pray is countercultural, even revolutionary work. As theologian Karl Barth once said, “The contemplative who can stand back from a situation and see it for what it is, is more threatening to an unjust social system than the frenzied activist who is so involved in the situation that he [she] cannot see clearly at all.”
Next, make space for grief. Welcome God into what you’re feeling just now, whatever it may be – fear, sorrow, outrage, numbness, overwhelm. The God whom we know in Jesus loves us utterly and sits with us as we mourn or rage or rejoice, holding us in love and helping us see what we need to see, accept what we need to accept, and find courage to change what we need to change.
Finally, take your own next right step. Maybe you’ll reach out to someone who is lonely or to someone who is fearful of attack by the new Administration. Maybe you’ll join me in an activist group like ThirdAct.org, which is for folks over 60 who want to protect democracy and the climate. Maybe you’ll sign up for action alerts from the Episcopal Public Policy Network. These are just a few of the many ways we can offer healing and justice in a perilous time. The main thing is this: we know who we are, and we know why we’re here. For today this Scripture has been fulfilled in our hearing.
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1. Hymn #490 (words by Kathleen Thomerson) in The Hymnal 1982.
2. Ibid.
Sermon for the First Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord
January 12, 2025
Prepared by the Rev. Dr. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas for Preaching for God’s World
I can’t think of a better day than today to speak about our Christian calling to care for God’s Creation. Today, on the First Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear, as we always do, the story of Jesus’ baptism. It’s one of the few events in Jesus’ life that is recorded in all four Gospels. Jesus is plunged by John the Baptist into the waters of the Jordan River. When Jesus emerges from its depths, the heavens are opened, the Spirit of God descends on him as gently as a dove, and a voice says: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22).
We return to this story year after year because Jesus’s baptism is one of the basic stories that reveals who he is. It’s also a foundational story of our life in Christ, a story that reveals who we are, too. Most of us probably can’t remember our baptism and we may not give our baptism much thought. Yet today’s Gospel invites us to explore the power of Jesus’ baptism, and of ours. We live in challenging times, and I wonder if tapping into the power of our baptism can help us to live with clarity, compassion, and moral courage.
Before I reflect on baptism, I’d like to say a few words about the challenges that confront us. Just to look squarely at those challenges without tuning out or turning away is an act of courage. It takes courage to see clearly what human beings are doing to our precious planet. It takes courage to hold a steady gaze and to witness the melting glaciers and bleaching coral reefs, the withered fields and bone-dry reservoirs, the flash floods and massive downpours, the record waves of heat. It takes courage not to look away but to hold a steady gaze as climate change makes sea levels rise and islands disappear, as oceans grow acidic and full of plastic, and as vast populations of our fellow creatures disappear.1
Last October, a group of top scientists published the 2024 State of the Climate report.2 They were clear about the predicament in which we find ourselves. They wrote, “We are on the brink of an irreversible climate disaster. This is a global emergency beyond any doubt. Much of the very fabric of life on Earth is imperiled.” They went on to say that “For half a century, global warming has been correctly predicted even before it was observed – and not only by independent academic scientists but also by fossil fuel companies. Despite these warnings, we are still moving in the wrong direction; fossil fuel emissions have increased to an all-time high, we are failing to avoid serious impacts, and we are witnessing the grim reality of the forecasts as climate impacts escalate, bringing forth scenes of unprecedented disasters around the world and human and nonhuman suffering.”
This is the world in which we live today, a world created and cherished by God, yet reeling from the heavy burden of human activities. So, as we return to the story of Jesus’ baptism, I consider it with a deep sense of seriousness and curiosity. Is it possible that in our baptism we’ve been given more power than we know? Is it possible that in this perilous and precarious time, we can draw fresh strength from our baptism? Is it possible that in our baptism God has given us great riches – riches that can give us strength to rise to the occasion and to act with compassion, clarity, and courage?
Image by falco from Pixabay
I’d like to name three of the riches that we receive in baptism. Maybe you can think of others – but here’s what I’ve got so far.
First, baptism gives us the power to live in love, to be rooted in love, to belong to a love that will never let us go. When we are baptized into Jesus Christ, we are baptized into the same compassion that led Jesus to step into the waters of the Jordan River and to be baptized by John. If you think about it, you’ll notice that Jesus didn’t need to be baptized. John the Baptist was preaching repentance from sin, but Jesus had no sin. He had nothing to repent, nothing to confess. He could have skipped the baptism and held himself separate from everyone else. He could have kept his distance and simply watched the masses of people crowding down to the river to confess their sins and receive forgiveness. And yet – he took the plunge. In an act of radical solidarity with all humankind, he stepped into the river and claimed the truth of interconnectedness.
Jesus chose to identify with all human beings, to identify with you, to identify with me. And not only with human beings but with the whole of God’s Creation. As John the Baptist said, those who are baptized into Christ are baptized “with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Luke 3:16). And you know what? The fire of God’s love keeps burning away all the chaff (Luke 3:17). Quickly or slowly, it burns away everything in us that is not love, opening our eyes so that we come to see the world as God sees it: as precious, sacred, and filled with God’s presence. The divine love into which we were plunged in baptism extends not only to us, and not only to human beings, but also to every sparrow and whale, every earthworm and orca, every maple tree and mountain.
So, baptism into Christ isn’t about joining a club or belonging to a tribe. It isn’t about affiliating with people who look like us or think like us. Baptism into Christ is a radical act of humility and compassion that joins us to the One who identifies with every human being and with the whole community of Creation. It joins us to a love that will never let us go.
Here’s a second gift of baptism: it puts our death behind us. In baptism, we are immersed in the waters of death. We have died in Christ; we have died with Christ. In a sense, our death has already taken place. It’s done. It’s over with. In baptism, we have died and been buried with Christ, and through the power of his resurrection, we are raised, here and now, to live with him. What this means is that we can acknowledge and face bad news without being overwhelmed by fear. The water we splash on a child at the baptismal font may seem inconsequential, but it’s a sign that we have nothing to fear from the death of the body. In fact, in the early centuries of the Church, Christians were called “those who have no fear of death.”3 To whatever extent we understand and trust that our death is behind us, we are set free from anguish and anxiety. We are set free to love without grasping, without possessiveness, without holding back.
And here is gift number three: baptized into a love that extends through all Creation and knows that life and not death will have the last word, we arise as healers and justice-seekers, as prophets and activists, as people unafraid to confront the powers-that-be. That’s what the early Church was known for. Remember the complaints that were lodged against the first followers of Jesus? They were charged with “turning the world upside down” and “acting contrary to the decrees of the emperor, saying that there is another king named Jesus” (Acts 17:6-7). As Christians we obey a higher authority. We refuse to settle for a killing status quo.
So – watch out, world! Wherever Christians are found, you will find people working – sometimes in difficult circumstances and against terrible odds – to bear witness to the love that has set us free. There are countless ways we do this, beginning with listening to the voices of Indigenous peoples, racial minorities, and the poor – the communities that are hurt first and worst by a changing climate. Some of us will resolve to ease back from a high-consuming lifestyle and begin living a more climate-friendly life, to cut back strongly on our use of fossil fuels, to switch our households to clean sources of energy, to eat less meat and to shift to a plant-based diet. Some of us will plant community gardens and pollinator gardens and find ways to support local land trusts that protect forests and farmland. Some of us will push big banks to quit funding fossil fuel expansion. Some of us will press elected officials to advocate for strong climate legislation, renewable energy, and good, “green” jobs. When speaking inside the halls of power isn’t enough, some of us will join the growing numbers of faith-filled people who bring our message to the streets, carrying out disruptive, peaceful civil disobedience and putting our bodies on the line.
Baptism gives us more power than we know – the power to attune ourselves day by day to the divine Love that created, redeemed, and sustains the whole Creation. If ever there were a time to bear witness to our faith and to the power of our baptism, now would be the time. If ever there were a time to hold fast to our vision of a world in which human beings live in right relationship with each other and with all our fellow creatures, now would be the time. Now is the time to take hold of the prophetic power of our baptism and to confront the forces within us and around us that are unraveling life on Earth.
How will you live out your baptism in the year ahead? How is God calling you to tap into the power that is yours in Christ?
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1. This paragraph is from Margaret Bullitt-Jonas, “Spiritual Practice and Sacred Activism in a Climate Emergency,” published in Buddhist Christian Studies, https://revivingcreation.org/spiritual-practice-and-sacred-activism-in-a-climate-emergency/
2. William J. Ripple et al, “The 2024 state of the climate report: Perilous times on planet Earth,” BioScience, Volume 74, Issue 12, December 2024, pp. 812–824.
3. Olivier Clement, The Roots of Christian Mysticism (first published in French as Sources, Paris: Editions Stock, 1982; first published in English, London: New City, 1993), p. 107.
This sermon is published here at Preaching for God’s World.
Into this world of skepticism and doubt explodes the miracle of the first Easter: an empty tomb, two angels in white. We have no reports of what Jesus’ resurrection looked or sounded like, though some of us imagine it being something like a supernova, an explosion of light. But from our own experience, many of us resonate with what happened to Mary Magdalene in today’s Gospel story from John, which is the most intimate of all the resurrection stories. Many of us know what it’s like to be deep in grief, to weep as Mary did, standing outside the tomb, to feel desolate, hopeless, and lost, and then to be surprised by the sense of a loving Presence nearby. Maybe you felt personally addressed, as if you could hear deep within you, just as Mary Magdalene did, the sound of a voice tenderly saying your name. That’s how quiet and subtle the first stirrings of resurrection can be, coming to us not as a great flash of light but as a voice of love that we hear within us in the stillness of the quiet.1
That’s the beginning of miracle, the beginning of new life, and let me tell you – it’s a miracle that makes a difference, a miracle that the unjust powers and principalities that rule the world tried in vain to prevent in Jesus’ day and that to this day they try to conceal or deny. Why do the unjust powers of this world, the powers of Empire, try to suppress news of resurrection? Because resurrection threatens any society that worships domination and greed, any society in which the billionaire rich grow increasingly rich and sweep aside the safety net that protects those in need, any society whose leaders hoard their privilege and wealth and treat Mother Earth with the same casual disregard with which they treat the vulnerable poor.
Into this world of corruption, chaos, and war walked Jesus, a man of peace, a man so radiant with the all-embracing loving-kindness of God that to be in his presence was to be in the presence of God. He walked a path of non-violent love, teaching, healing, and blessing everyone he met, challenging them to understand that they too were children of God, born to express God’s love in everything they said and did, born to create communities of love in which no one was left out. When at last he confronted the imperial powers, he endured in his own body the brutalities of this world and conveyed until his last breath a spirit of forgiveness and non-violence.
And then, on Easter morning – ah! – something was unleashed into the world, a release of energy, an explosion of light. From out of the empty tomb, from out of our empty souls, the living Spirit of Christ springs forth, breaking open everything that is fearful, clenched, and small, unleashing a love that softens our hearts, melts all barriers, and encompasses all beings.
I love it that today is not only Easter Sunday but also Earth Sunday, the Sunday closest to Earth Day, April 22, when people around the country commit themselves to restoring the planet that we call home. I love it that this year Easter Sunday and Earth Sunday fall on the same day, for our Easter liturgies proclaim that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is good news not only for human beings but also for the whole of Creation – for rivers and mountains, forests and fields, hawks, whales, bats, and bees. At last night’s Great Vigil of Easter, we started by lighting a fire in the darkness, and we listened to Kevin Blanchard chant the ancient words:
Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth,
bright with a glorious splendor,
for darkness has been vanquished by our eternal King.
Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth! Christ is risen!
Into this world of skepticism and doubt explodes the miracle of the first Easter: an empty tomb, two angels in white. We have no reports of what Jesus’ resurrection looked or sounded like, though some of us imagine it being something like a supernova, an explosion of light. But from our own experience, many of us resonate with what happened to Mary Magdalene in today’s Gospel story from John, which is the most intimate of all the resurrection stories. Many of us know what it’s like to be deep in grief, to weep as Mary did, standing outside the tomb, to feel desolate, hopeless, and lost, and then to be surprised by the sense of a loving Presence nearby. Maybe you felt personally addressed, as if you could hear deep within you, just as Mary Magdalene did, the sound of a voice tenderly saying your name. That’s how quiet and subtle the first stirrings of resurrection can be, coming to us not as a great flash of light but as a voice of love that we hear within us in the stillness of the quiet.1
That’s the beginning of miracle, the beginning of new life, and let me tell you – it’s a miracle that makes a difference, a miracle that the unjust powers and principalities that rule the world tried in vain to prevent in Jesus’ day and that to this day they try to conceal or deny. Why do the unjust powers of this world, the powers of Empire, try to suppress news of resurrection? Because resurrection threatens any society that worships domination and greed, any society in which the billionaire rich grow increasingly rich and sweep aside the safety net that protects those in need, any society whose leaders hoard their privilege and wealth and treat Mother Earth with the same casual disregard with which they treat the vulnerable poor.
Into this world of corruption, chaos, and war walked Jesus, a man of peace, a man so radiant with the all-embracing loving-kindness of God that to be in his presence was to be in the presence of God. He walked a path of non-violent love, teaching, healing, and blessing everyone he met, challenging them to understand that they too were children of God, born to express God’s love in everything they said and did, born to create communities of love in which no one was left out. When at last he confronted the imperial powers, he endured in his own body the brutalities of this world and conveyed until his last breath a spirit of forgiveness and non-violence.
And then, on Easter morning – ah! – something was unleashed into the world, a release of energy, an explosion of light. From out of the empty tomb, from out of our empty souls, the living Spirit of Christ springs forth, breaking open everything that is fearful, clenched, and small, unleashing a love that softens our hearts, melts all barriers, and encompasses all beings.
I love it that today is not only Easter Sunday but also Earth Sunday, the Sunday closest to Earth Day, April 22, when people around the country commit themselves to restoring the planet that we call home. I love it that this year Easter Sunday and Earth Sunday fall on the same day, for our Easter liturgies proclaim that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is good news not only for human beings but also for the whole of Creation – for rivers and mountains, forests and fields, hawks, whales, bats, and bees. At last night’s Great Vigil of Easter, we started by lighting a fire in the darkness, and we listened to Kevin Blanchard chant the ancient words:
Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth,
bright with a glorious splendor,
for darkness has been vanquished by our eternal King.
Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth! Christ is risen!
