The Rev. Maureen R. Frescott
Congregational Church of
Amherst, UCC
April 21, 2019 – Easter
Sunday
John 20:1-18
“Rising Up”
I
invite you to repeat after me:
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah
is a Hebrew word.
Halle means “praise.”
Lu means “ye.”
And
Jah is short for “Yahweh.”
So
Hallelujah means, “Praise ye God.”
We Christians
often use the Latinized version of the word – Alleluia.
But
outside of Christianity, Hallelujah is the word of choice.
I
suspect there are more than a few times in each of our lives when we’ve literally
shouted Hallelujah out loud…apart from Easter Sunday.
Hallelujah
– it’s not going to rain on our vacation!
Hallelujah
– our child who was lost was found safe and sound.
Hallelujah
– the biopsy results came back negative or benign.
Hallelujah
– I came home from a long day at work to find dinner already made and the
laundry folded and put away.
As
we know, there are varying degrees of hallelujahs.
Hallelujah
is a sigh of relief –
an
exclamation at an unexpected surprise –
a
proclamation of joy when hope overtakes despair.
I
lifted up a Hallelujah myself this past Tuesday morning.
When,
in the aftermath of the devastating fire that tore through Notre Dame Cathedral
in Paris on Monday, the light of a new day revealed that the historic place of worship
and icon of the people of France was not
a total loss.
The
rose windows were still there, the priceless art and relics had been saved,
the
organ along with its 8000 pipes was intact, and the stone towers that have
stood for almost 900 years still rose up into the Parisian sky.
Hallelujah,
indeed.
On
Wednesday, I shouted Hallelujah yet again.
When
in the midst of worldwide grief over the cathedral fire and the one billion dollars that was pledged to help
rebuild,
attention
was rightfully drawn to the three African-American churches that burned in one
of the poorest districts in southern Louisiana earlier this month.
Set
afire by an arsonist who has since been charged with a hate crime –
the
fires had been largely ignored or forgotten as the fickle 24-hour news cycle
moved on to more attention grabbing headlines.
A
Go-Fund-Me campaign set up to aid the three churches had barely raised $50,000
as of last Sunday, but in the wake of renewed publicity after the Paris fire,
nearly 2.2 million dollars has now been raised to rebuild these equally sacred
spaces in southern Louisiana.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” the angels
said to Mary.
When
a church is set ablaze, whether it’s a tiny rural meetinghouse,
or
a grand historic cathedral, tears of grief are shed,
not
just over the loss of a worship space, or irreplaceable artifacts,
or
the history contained in the wood, stone, and glass that make a building
constructed by human hands a sacred space.
Tears
of grief are shed because it’s soul shocking when a house of worship is touched
by tragedy or the seemingly random chaos or violence of our world.
A
house of God is supposed to be a sacred space – a sanctuary from the uncertain
and shakable world that we live in.
If
God’s house can go up in flames, or be shot up with bullets,
what
hope is there for our house?
If
God’s son can die on a cross, after being betrayed and deserted by those he
loved, what hope is there for us?
“Woman,
why are you weeping?” The gardener said to Mary.
At
least she assumed he was the
gardener.
Looking
at the photos of Notre Dame the day after the roof and spire burned and
collapsed, you can see huge planks of blackened wood laying atop the crushed pews
on the sanctuary floor.
Palm
Sunday mass was celebrated there last Sunday, and afterward the stray palms were
swept up and the space was prepared for Holy Week –
Holy
Thursday foot washings, Good Friday stations of the cross,
Holy
Saturday vigils - with thoughts likely spinning ahead to Easter Sunday – when
thousands of worshipers would walk through the sanctuary doors wearing Easter
hats and spring fashions –
longing
to hear the story of resurrection once again.
When
the sanctuary lights were turned off on Palm Sunday there was no expectation that
this Holy Week would be any different from any other Holy Week.
But
that’s how it happens.
We’re
moving along, going about our business as usual and suddenly the world is on
fire around us.
And
when we awake the next morning the walls are blackened, the spire has
collapsed, and the sturdy roof we once counted on to be our shelter in the
storm is in a waterlogged and smoldering pile at our feet.
“Woman,
why are you weeping?” Jesus said to Mary.
And
when he called her name, “Mary” - she recognized him as her teacher.
Jesus
walking in the garden on Easter morning is the definitive “Hallelujah” moment.
It’s
one that we may take for granted after hearing this story told so many times before,
especially
if we carry an uncertainty as to whether we even believe it to be true.
But
a story doesn’t have to be new or true – in a modern-day fact-checking way –
for us to find meaning in the Hallelujah moment it contains.
Mary
is in the garden.
Moving
in the twilight of morning.
Willing
herself to put one foot in front of the other in her grief.
Because
what she expects to find is the wrapped and lifeless body of her teacher…and
instead she finds an empty space – and no place to lay her sorrow.
Mary
is in the garden.
And
into the empty space she pours her confusion and her disorientation.
She
sees two angels…..no, she sees a gardener, …no…..she sees her teacher.
But
how can this be?
How
can life be standing where she expected death to be?
How
do any of us pull life out of death?
How
do we coax a resurrection out of the empty space that lies in between?
If
you’ve ever stared into the abyss of depression, or an addiction, or a cancer
diagnosis, or the heart wrenching death of a loved one –
and
then awoken one morning with less of a pain in your heart,
with
less weight pushing down upon your chest,
with
less of an impulse to pull the covers up over your head and more of a desire to
tug open the curtains – just a bit - and let the sunlight creep in…
then
you know what it is to pull resurrection out of an empty tomb.
Indeed,
we are witnesses to signs of resurrection all around us.
Seeing
green shoots pushing up from what was once frozen ground.
Watching
a butterfly emerge from a shroud-like cocoon.
Looking
into a burned out cathedral and seeing a golden cross still suspended – unscathed
– over the altar.
These
are all powerful images of resurrection.
Powerful
signs of hope rising up from the ashes.
But
none of these can compare to the resiliency of the human spirit.
And
the God-given power it has to rise up from the deepest depths of despair.
If
you’ve experienced a resurrection moment.
Or
if you’re desperately seeking one for yourself, after having witnessed it in
others – then you know the power of the Easter story first hand.
The
Easter story of Mary encountering Jesus in the garden confirms what many of us
already know, or need to hear again, and again.
That
it is possible to rise up from the tomb we’ve been placed in and once again feel
hope and joy and the hallelujah moments we’ve been longing for.
Maybe
that’s why we gather in such great numbers to hear this story year after year –
long after our sense of obligation to a particular church or particular faith
has waned.
Every
Easter morning we walk into the garden with Mary and we peer into the tomb
expecting to find death, and instead we find life.
And
then we walk out into the world carrying this Hallelujah moment with us.
And
hopefully, we allow it to filter into the darker recesses of our hearts, and
our world.
Planting
seeds of hope, nurturing experiences of joy, breathing new life into dreams and
aspirations and relationships that are in need of resurrecting.
And
in the process, re-newing and re-creating our world around us,
into
one that more closely reflects the extravagant offering of love, compassion,
and grace that Jesus lived for and died for and rose up out of the tomb for.
“Woman,
why are you weeping?”
Go
and tell the others what you have seen and heard.
Rise
up and spread the good news.
For
Christ has risen, indeed!
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Amen!
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