A Dream Coming True (Easter Sermon)

“A Dream Coming True”

Matthew 28:1-10

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

Easter 2016

         When looking closely at all four gospels, we notice agreement on major themes. When it comes to particulars, though, the stories often disagree. The stories of Jesus’ arrest, betrayal, and crucifixion are good examples. While all four agree that Jesus was betrayed, arrested, tried, and executed, each storyteller configures the details differently to say particular things to a particular audience. And we can be at peace with these differences. The gospels sing in harmony, not in unison.

         Two other things on which the gospels agree: Between sundown on the Sabbath (Friday) and sunrise of the first day of the week (Sunday), something remarkable happens in and around the tomb in which Jesus is buried. Sunday morning women are the first to encounter the beings at the tomb. I say “beings” because, depending on which gospel you read, the details say one angel or two angels, or one young man or two men.

         It hardly matters how the gospels describe what the women saw, but it apparently matters that women saw it first.

         Perhaps having women at the tomb first is one of those Holy Spirit things, because it is through our feminine aspect that transforming power usually finds its initial footing in the human heart. 

         Some years ago, I sat at home, clicking through TV channels like a squirrel jumping back and forth in the branches of a tree. It must have been a Saturday afternoon, because I came across a fishing show. The people on the show were heading out into the dark, cold waters off the Alaskan coast somewhere. As they motored into deep water, they were surprised by some visitors. A small pod of whales began to make one run after another for the surface, their magnificent bodies lunging into the air. And each time gravity reached up and yanked all those tons of blubber back down, the sea exploded in a thundering, foaming spray.

         On the deck of the fishing boat, the fishermen whooped and hollered.

“Is that awesome or what!” said one.

“Whoa! Do it again!” said another.

And my personal favorite, the universal guy word used to express virtually any emotion: “Dude!”

         Now, the boat carried more than fishermen. There was one fisherwoman on board, and while she was just as overwhelmed as her male companions, her comment revealed a connection far more intimate and mysterious than the rather adolescent reactions of her male counterparts. And honestly, few men that I know would think to say this, because few would have seen it as a sacred, revelatory event.

         The woman was not even on camera when she said, “I didn’t even know this was my dream!”

         I didn’t even know this was my dream. What a profound expression of joy, gratitude, and soul. Immediately I thought of Psalm 42: “Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and your billows have gone over me.”

         Seeing the leviathan leap from the water was more than a visual experience for the woman. In that moment of wonder, power, and grace, a word broke through from the depths of God’s heart and into the depths of her own. The earth shook. A stone shifted and revealed something brand new about who she was, about what life means, and about the earth-rending splendor of the human spirit. Whether or not the woman would have used God language to talk about her experience does not really matter. In that holy moment, out of all who witnessed the same thing, that woman gave voice to the deepest longings of her heart – and maybe even of the Human Heart itself. 

         I didn’t even know this was my dream!

         Back to Easter morning: How do the men react when deep calls to deep, when the earth shakes and all heaven breaks loose? Mark, the earliest gospel, does not even mention the men. Luke says that the disciples dismiss the women’s testimony as an idle tale. Matthew says that the armed guards play possum, and that the Jewish leaders bribe them to say that Jesus’ disciples stole the body. Even when Jesus appears to the disciples in Matthew, some still doubt. John says that on Sunday evening, the disciples, who had yet to experience firsthand the sound of the cataracts falling and the waves billowing, lock themselves in a house for fear of the Jews.

         While the guys are busy analyzing the data, quantifying the readings, verifying the sightings, and trying to come up with some way either to prove or refute this bewildering and potentially dangerous minority report, the women are trying to find someone to celebrate with, someone to whom they could say, We didn’t even know this was our dream!

         At the end of the day, or even at the beginning, feminine and masculine have little to do with being male or female. To be complete human beings, all of us must strike some kind of healthy balance between our masculine and feminine aspects.

So: I do believe that resurrection faith begins in that compassionate and vulnerable part of us that welcomes the sudden surprise of seeing a dream come true even when we did not know that what we were seeing was our dream. At the same time, living out that new faith takes all the decisiveness and strength we can muster. Discipleship demands that we commit our entire selves to the living Christ and to his mission. That is why the angel directs us toward Galilee, the place of Jesus’ ministry. Jesus meets us there – he meets us here – where his work is ongoing.

         We worship and celebrate within this sanctuary. We sing our thanks and praise and Alleluias to God for the surprise gift of a new life to live here and now, as well as in the life to come. But that life is not contained within the walls of this or of any sanctuary. All too often the Church becomes a lumbering, self-serving, gator-infested money pit; but the point of this thing called Church is to live Resurrection life and faith, to live as the body of Christ in, with, and for the Creation.

God calls us to return to Galilee and work alongside the one who rises from death like a whale rising from the ocean depths, the one who rises like a sudden experience of gratitude, or joy, or courage, or hope, or Love. The one who rises like a dream come true.

         May it be your dream to experience Jesus Eastering in you a complete and completely renewed person. And may you dream of becoming an Eastering presence, someone through whom others see Christ rising from the depths and splashing gloriously through the surface of the creation, overwhelming them with wonder and thanksgiving.

         May this be your dream. May it be our dream. And may the dream come true.

         Alleluia!

A Tomb Overflowing (Easter Sunrise Sermon)

“A Tomb Overflowing”

John 20:1-18

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

Easter Sunrise – 2016

         In ancient Israel, proper burial is first and foremost a matter of respect for the dead. And while the last witness of a life well-lived is the community’s loving committal of the body, those who die with blemished reputations can expect their bodies to be treated accordingly. Willful contempt of the Torah, malevolence in leadership, lack of compassion for the poor, such failures follow a body in death.

“I will fling you into the wilderness,” says Ezekiel, “…you shall fall in the open field, and not be gathered and buried. To the animals of the earth and to the birds of the air I have given you as food.” (Ezekiel 29:5) This is but one of many such warnings.

Secondly, proper burial preserves the holiness of the land and the purity of the people. This concern applies especially to executed criminals: “When someone is convicted of a crime punishable by death and is executed, and you hang him on a tree, his corpse must not remain all night upon the tree; you shall bury him that same day, for anyone hung on a tree is under God’s curse. You must not defile the land that the Lord your God is giving you…”¹ (Deuteronomy 21:22-23)

         These customs lie behind Mary Magdalene’s desperate lament: They have taken [his body from the tomb], and we don’t know where they have laid him. She says this twice.

Then, a third time, when facing one whom she thinks is the gardener, Mary begs, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

You may hear something entirely different in Mary’s plea, but I hear her saying, Mister, please, if you took Jesus’ body, just tell me where it is. I won’t tell anyone that you moved it, and I’ll put it where the unfriendly beasts cannot devour it and scatter it.

I’ll put it where it can return, slowly and gently, to the holy earth from which it came.

         Easter. Just saying the word makes me taste hard-boiled eggs. It brings to mind the bright colors of spring, the warmth of lengthening days, and the exultation of birdsong. I am beginning to think, though, that maybe Easter should also taste like compost. Maybe it should smell and feel like the rich, spongy rot on a forest floor. It seems to me that the church has focused its attention so exclusively on the empty tomb that we are missing an invitation to stand in awe of a tomb overflowing with new fullness the way a compost bin overflows with fresh fertility and brand new life. To hear and respond to that invitation leads to transformation, the kind of transformation that makes Jesus say to Mary, Stop. Don’t touch me. I’m different now. Everything is different now.

         Have you ever had a dream about death? Death dreams seldom leave us unchanged. Composting the experiences and emotions of our waking lives, all dreams story us toward new understanding and healing in our sleep. Rather than serving as omens of catastrophe, death dreams invite us to recognize some aspect of our lives that is undergoing transformation, or which needs to be transformed.

         Often dark and forbidding, death dreams are kind of like tombs – but maybe they are most like Jesus’ tomb, places of revelation, places of healing and even redeeming fullness. And our best response begins with grateful awe. To analyze, evaluate, and reduce the Easter tomb or a nighttime dream to one conclusive meaning or formula is to sterilize them. It is to miss their fullness. It is to seek hope in emptiness.

         I had two death dreams last week. In the first dream I walk past two tents. They are dark, and slightly wider than they are deep. They are on my right, and are open on the side where I walk. They are stacked full of human bodies lying on tall beds or tables. One or two bodies are dying. The rest have been dead for quite some time. The grotesque scene upsets me deeply. It overwhelms me. As I step over the dark shape of a woman’s body crumbling into earth, I cry out to all of them, “I’m sorry!”

         The next moment I am turned around and walking the other direction. The tents, now on my left, have changed. They are exactly like the tents that sit in this very spot during the Storytelling Festival. They are open all around, bright and welcoming. An older couple sits at a table, eating peacefully.²

         In my second dream, a roof leak is causing ceilings in my house to disintegrate. The house is also burning from the inside as if from its own energy. This concerns me at first. Finally, though, I just leave the house. Let it drown. Let it burn. Let it die. I just want to start over.

         Naming a dream is one way to relate to it, to honor it, and learn from it. I cannot decide whether to call that second holy week dream Baptism by Fire or Baptismal Burnout. Both are accurate.

Together, those dreams reveal transforming, resurrection truth that I think is challenging me to live a livelier and more hospitable life. That will require of me repentance, renewed gratitude, and better self care. I will need to let go of some things, things that often bury me beneath dead expectations and life-diminishing habits. Living the new life Jesus offers always means dying to old ways that feel comfortable and secure.

         Virtually everyone who works with dreams as a spiritual discipline says that dreams are given by the Dream Giver as signs of healing and hope for the dreamer. Even death dreams and nightmares reveal the heart of God for the dreamer. They reveal God’s own dreams for us.

My family, you, and I all need me to have and to honor those particular dreams at this particular time.

Maybe Easter is like waking up from a death dream, like waking up after having been shown something transforming, something that stories us in new directions. Now, we will use words to tell our dreams and our stories. Words help us to express and embrace our wonder, joy, and hope. Words, however, are helpless to explain Resurrection. And if I try to use words to prove Resurrection, I will really miss the mark. I will have tried to confine the Holy Spirit inside my own biased language.

Easter and dreams both call for more than words. They call for relationship, for a new, grateful, and generous life response.

         With that in mind, maybe we do better speaking of Jesus’ tomb not as empty but as spacious, a place overflowing with grace, a place – like Narnia inside that wardrobe – that is infinitely larger on the inside than it is on the outside. The deaths we die, figuratively and literally, serve as entry ways, openings, transformed and transforming beginnings. Ultimately, you see, we follow Jesus into his tomb to live.

 “Listen,” says Paul, “I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed…When this perishable body puts on imperishability, and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’ ‘Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’” (1Corinthians 15:51-52, 54-55)

         Into what newness of life is the ever-rising Christ composting you.

Into what unexpected and spacious fullness is God Eastering you today?

¹For a general discussion on ancient Jewish traditions regarding death and burial, see: http://www.craigaevans.com/Burial_Traditions.pdf

²This sunrise sermon was preached outside in the beautiful park behind the International Storytelling Center in Jonesborough, TN.

Friday Happens (Maundy Thursday Meditation)

“Friday Happens”

Luke 22:39-46

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

Maundy Thursday – 2016

         “Pray that you may not come to into the time of trial.”

         Luke records Jesus saying this to his disciples, but one can get the impression that Jesus means these words for himself.

Surely he has witnessed crucifixions, and now he faces that same fate. He faces state execution because it is a crime to speak God’s Love, justice, and peace into Rome’s manipulations of fear and her lust for power.

Personally, I cannot preach that Jesus’ death satisfies some divine bloodlust. Any so-called god who can only be restored to merciful relationship through vicious brutality – such gods are not the God of Moses, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, and David. Those are the gods of Pharaoh, Jezebel, Caesar, Robespierre, Stalin, and all other Machiavellian tyrants.

         In the end, violent power is powerless to do anything but destroy. It cannot redeem.

As betrayal and death approach, an anxious Jesus makes his way to a familiar place, the Mount of Olives. It is an olive grove, a garden, a place where seeds are planted in the ground to die, then by some mystery that we can appreciate but cannot re-create, those same seeds emerge into new life. As place of fertility, the garden stands in contrast to the desert in which Jesus first wrestles with temptation, but in this very different place he wrestles once again.

“Father,” he says, “if you are willing, remove this cup from me.”

By way of answer, Jesus gets an angel to strengthen him. The course of the weekend will not change. Adding insult to injury, Jesus’ disciples confront the gravity of the moment by denying it. They go to sleep. Now facing stress far greater than the weakness of the extended fasting at his first temptation, will Jesus finally break? Escape is an option.

It is called hematidrosis. It is rare but well-documented. Under extreme stress, a human being can actually sweat blood. The phenomenon has been observed with some frequency in places like death row. Could hematidrosis be the more painful blood that Jesus sheds? The blood of inner wounds, the blood of one who willingly lives in Love for all creation, faces death for his efforts, and then gets abandoned by those he loves?

         Jesus bends, but he does not break. He faces the worst Rome can do to him not because the Father won’t be able to love again unless the Son is killed, but because the Father and Son are inseparable. Love is who they are and what they do. They can do nothing less and remain themselves.

Whether as bombs in airports, careless contaminations that destroy individual creatures and entire climates, or our petty judgments of friend and foe alike, Friday roars into our lives and into all the life around us. It lulls us into the numbing sleep of anxiety. Most of all it tempts us with bitterness – with that almost terminal surrender to death called un-forgiveness.

Friday happens. It just does. Fear, brutality, and all other idolatries of power will have their moments, and they will prove painful. Nonetheless, the whole of the Friday-to-Sunday event declares that, finally, Love prevails. Love, forgiveness, healing – this is the trajectory of Creation. It is God’s will for us and promise to us.

Jesus plows through Friday not to make God able to love us again, but to show us that God has never stopped loving us. And never will.

May we all go and do likewise.

Mary's Abundance (Sermon)

“Mary’s Abundance”

John 12:1-8

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/13/16

         It is six days before Passover, and Jesus is at Lazarus’ home.

         The ever-silent Lazarus is up and taking nourishment, again.

         Both of Lazarus’ sisters are there. Martha is fussing about, again – serving dinner and taking care of everyone.

Thank God for Marthas. Some of them may never really understand why they do all they do. They may never truly feel gratitude in doing all they do. But they get things done. And the rest of us let the Marthas wear themselves out with their examples of humble faithfulness. At their funerals, we praise them for their servant hearts, and all the while wondering, “Oh no! Who’s going to organize the kitchen now?”

         Then there is Mary. “Bless her heart,” say all the Marthas. “Mary doesn’t know which end of a stick of butter to grease a cake pan with.”

Mary is a contemplative. This night she shows up with a bottle of expensive perfume. Instead of using it to cook with, Mary opens the bottle, and in front of everyone, she pours the entire contents onto Jesus’ feet, then wipes those feet with the very hair of her head.

         Now, bear with me a minute. My mama is from Alabama. My daddy is from Mississippi. My wife and I are both from Georgia. Our children were born in Georgia and raised mostly in North Carolina. I went to college in South Carolina. I went to seminaries in both Virginia and Georgia. I have served churches in North Carolina and Tennessee. My international experiences have been brief visits to Africa, Eastern Europe, and Pittsburg. If I offer a critique of southern culture, it comes from one who is thoroughly and gratefully southern.

The fine southern ladies and gentlemen who raised me tended toward a conspicuous politeness. That persona was not at all false. Like any façade, it was simply incomplete. It served as a kind of protective shield. It is how people from “good families” maintain respectable reputations in a world of temptation. For better or worse, we all project personas. And for better or worse, we all maintain those personas by repressing other realities about ourselves.

All that is just to say that, as a child in Sunday school, I was never taught that when the Bible refers to feet, it is usually alluding to the masculine propagative appurtenance.

Southerners, who have been “raised right,” know how to use a thesaurus, too. It’s how we avoid uncalled for transparency.

Sure, sometimes feet are just feet, but in the metaphorically sophisticated world of John’s gospel, almost everything has multiple layers of meaning. Mary’s actions, profoundly intimate and suggestive, express the daring testimony of a woman who has begun to comprehend Jesus’ identity, the possibilities of relationship with him, and the fact that trouble is brewing. Anointing Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair seems to be Mary’s way of saying, “Jesus, I love you above all others. And I want to live in such a way that your life continues through mine.”

John sets up a contrast: As a follower of Jesus, Mary chooses to see the creation as a place of fullness and possibility.

As a follower of Jesus, Judas chooses to see the creation as a place of dwindling scarcity.

As followers of Jesus in a dis-eased world, our work includes discovering and developing our innermost Mary. Through her unambiguously intimate act of baring the purest, most provocative, most Love-tortured depths of her heart, soul, mind, and body, Mary points us toward a life of abundance. She helps us to recognize and fall in Love with the deep, indwelling extravagance of Jesus.

If we claim to follow Jesus, especially if we claim to follow Jesus, we must also confess and confront our inner Judas. Judas focuses on scarcity, on what we do not have, and what we stand to lose. Living by calculated fear, envy, and vengeance, Judas always betrays Jesus for the sake of protecting the purse strings, the comforts of privilege, and the advantages of power.

Part of our human struggle is holding Mary and Judas together – in our individual hearts and in our institutions. When we ignore Mary, we become Marthas – helpful but superficial. Ignoring Judas has more serious consequences. When ignored, Judas will search out and exploit our frailties and fears. Camouflaged in rational argument, he directs us toward real concerns in ways that make Love appear unrealistic, a happy delusion. And he is really good at this.

“You cannot be prosperous and safe without being in control,” Judas says. “So take control! Where will you be, where will your church and your country be if you don’t act decisively to ensure its survival?” (Judas almost always connects spiritual well-being to political power.)

“You’ll never feed, clothe, or house anyone,” he says. “You’ll never be able to ‘love your neighbor’ if you’re not alive enough and free enough to do it!”

It is scary just how much sense Judas makes. But aren’t these the precise arguments Satan uses to tempt Jesus?

So, what are we to do? I think John’s point is that life and freedom look more like the scandal of Mary’s prodigal, self-revealing extravagance than the devious façade of Judas’ self-preserving reason.

Demonstrating the characteristic paradox of the Household of God, Mary does indeed take control – by surrendering herself to Love. She is sustained through her apparently unsustainable outpouring of gratitude, affection, and commitment.

“Those who want to save their life will lose it,” says Jesus, “and those who lose their life for my sake…will save it.” (Mark 8:35)

I have to give our Catholic brothers and sisters credit. They grasp Mary’s significance in ways we do not. Without Mary’s liveliness and vigor, the church deteriorates into the spiritually numbing routines of Martha and the cynical, mercenary programs of Judas.

Rabbi Heschel writes: “When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit…when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion – its message becomes meaningless.”¹

         It’s all about you, says Judas. We’re all going to die, so do whatever you must to win.

It’s all about you, says Martha. It’s all about going to heaven when you die. So, do right things. Think right thoughts. Don’t get lost.

         It’s all about Communion with God, says Mary. In this all-too-brief and painful life, in this all-too-gloriously beautiful creation we breathe eternity every time we share in the holy and abundant gift of Love.

Receive it. Wed yourself to it.

Pour it out with generous abandon.

Without it, you are already dead.

With it, you are already alive forever.

Charge/Benediction:

         In his novel Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry’s main character observes that, “…love, sooner or later, forces us out of time...of all that we feel and do, all the virtues and all the sins, love alone crowds us at last over the edge of the world. For love is always more than a little strange here...It is in the world, but is not altogether of it. It is of eternity. It takes us there when it most holds us here.”²

¹From Abraham Joshua Heschel’s, God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism, http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/5545.Abraham_Joshua_Heschel

²From Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow, http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/55980-jayber-crow

The True Inheritance (Sermon)

“The True Inheritance”

Luke 15:11-32

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/6/16

         Most of us can find ourselves somewhere in this story.

         Maybe we have been the younger son – so incurably restless that we cannot see how deeply it hurts those who love us when we abduct ourselves from their lives.

         Maybe we know how it feels to hit bottom. Vanity and pride choke us mercilessly. We feel life slipping away. And just before losing consciousness, humility slips up behind us, reaches around us, and with a strength that arrogance cannot muster, revives us with a kind of spiritual Heimlich. From that point, life becomes precious and new, so much so, perhaps, that we may risk everything to reconcile with those we left.

         Maybe we know how it feels to be welcomed back, too – the breath-taking gratitude and relief. It can be a bittersweet thing, though. Sometimes, it takes the experience of being forgiven to realize fully all the pain we caused, and to grieve all that we lost that can never be regained.

         Maybe we have known the father’s heart, as well – the parent who has done his or her imperfect best for those who call us Father or Mother by no choice of their own – nor of ours, conceivably. Urges and intentions fight for balance in this life.

To feel the father’s heart is to know the terrifying joys of Love. Our prayers for children to leave and to stay, our prayers for them to be ready for the cruelties of this world with both realism and optimism, these prayers shred our hearts. We pray and love, but to hear our flesh and blood wish us dead, demand their due, and turn their backs – we cannot prepare for that.

         When they return, if indeed they do, we may see on their faces details of stories they will never tell. Still, in our throats there rises that same lump we felt when they were born. Like the father in Jesus’ parable, we will almost surely brave the hail of death-sentence stones aimed at the one who shamed and disowned us. He has now returned, and we are helpless to offer anything but welcome.

         Surely, there is something of the older brother in us, too. So dependable and responsible as to feel trapped. So focused on our righteousness that we indignantly judge everyone else against ourselves.

         You may feel none of this, or more than I describe. But perhaps the thing that draws us into this parable is not how true the story reads, but the fact that it does not end. The conclusion of the parable is simply the beginning of a story Jesus does not tell. It is up to each reader to enter this parable and to write entirely new chapters. The story is an invitation to follow the Storyteller’s heart into a new way of life.

Let’s imagine a continuation to the story. The two brothers come together several days, maybe years, after the younger’s return. They meet at night, beneath the same stars that guide Abraham and Moses, and beneath which David and Elijah learn painful lessons of patience and wisdom.

After a long, tense silence, the younger brother says, “I know

you’re angry at me, and I don’t blame you.”

The older brother gives those words time to hang and drift like a mist in the cold night air.

“You know…Dad…he wept for days after you disappeared. And about a month later, we were in the fields one day. We’d stopped to rest, and he asked me, ‘Why? Why would your brother want me dead?’

         “I hoped you’d return, but only so I could kill you,” says the older. “But when you did, and when the old man welcomed you back, I got furious at both of you. Then with myself.”

“Why are you mad at yourself?” the younger asks.

“Because I’ve realized that long ago, and in my own cowardly way, I left, too.”

         “How do you mean?”

         “Do you remember when we were kids,” says the older, “and Dad had just begun to let us sit out with the flock at night?”

         “Yeah,” chuckles the younger, “We used to fight half the night about who got to hold the sling and who had to carry the rocks.”

         “Mm-hm. And do you remember when I began to ask to take night watch by myself?”

         “And Dad wouldn’t let you. But you didn’t demand your inheritance and leave.”

         “No,” says the older. “I didn’t do that, but in my own pig-headed way, I did leave. When Dad told me that I was not ready, I set out to prove that I was. I learned the animals. I learned the land, and what the animals could and couldn’t eat. I learned how to handle myself at the market, how to buy and sell for the best price. I learned the Torah. Even now I know it better than he does.”

“And these are bad things?” says the younger.

On the eastern horizon, dawn begins to break. The older brother inhales a deep breath of new morning air and says, “Don’t you see? I did all that stuff just to impress him. I did it to earn what was already mine. I’ve wasted half my life being as impatient as you. And it has all but killed me.”

         The younger brother thinks back to that lonely moment in that squalid hog lot when he had realized things his brother is realizing now.

“When you got back,” says the older, “Dad pleaded with me to join the party. And do you know what I said? I said, ‘Look, for all these years I have been working like a slave for you.’ I said that, ‘like a slave.’ In my own home. I got so mad I couldn’t stand the sight of either of you.

“Then Dad looked at me and said, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.’”

         “And it is,” says the younger gravely. “All mine is gone.”

         The older brother pauses like a shepherd facing his first wolf.

“Then,” he says, “Dad told me, ‘We have to celebrate. There is no more death between your brother and us. What was lost has been found!’”

         As the weight of forgiveness settles on his shoulders, the younger brother begins to sob. Sometimes, guilt can be so much easier to carry.

         “We’ve both been dead and gone,” says the older. “But somehow, Dad has made us both alive again. There is nothing of his – or mine that cannot be yours as well.”

         That wise, long-suffering father – he does not forgive for his sake alone. He forgives to prepare ground for a future he desires for his sons and for their community, a future they must learn to desire, as well.

Forgiveness is more than some praiseworthy act. It is a grateful and generous blessing, a prayer for days to come.

Forgiveness is the true inheritance that keeps the story alive.

Wounds and Wisdom (Newsletter)

         During last Sunday evening’s Taizé service, one of the prayers included the following petition: “O Lord, deepen my wounds into wisdom.”¹ That image swept through me as if coming from beyond time and from deep within the present moment. All words from God do that.

         The solemn observances of Holy Week and the great celebrations of the Easter season invite us to acknowledge the wounds we carry within us, and feel all around us in the creation. Wisdom is the gift of acknowledging that all wounds are, in truth, symptoms of the one Wound – Humankind’s long-storied and selfish idolatries.

Whether a person “believes in God” or not, there are myriad ways of attempting to set ourselves apart from and above others. And when I allow myself to be convinced that I am more valuable than others, there may be no length to which I will not go to ignore or despise them. Because they do not matter, their pain meanings nothing to me. There is only my pain, or anger, or grief.

Good Friday reveals the pain of far more than one person. Remember the stories surrounding Jesus’ life as an intenerate teacher, his agony in Gethsemane, his trial before Pilate, his walk to Golgotha, his time on the cross. Where is there not pain, anger, or grief along that journey? For him and for everyone who loves him, and everyone who does not? It is everywhere. The birth, life, death, resurrection, and continual return of Jesus is all one eternal movement, and it is all about revealing the Kingdom of God through the experience of the divine/human wound called Life.

         To pray for the deepening of wounds for the sake of wisdom is to ask God to help us to see and to empathize with all suffering. As Frederick Buechner said: “Compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else’s skin. It’s the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too.”² That is the wisdom of true, and healthy, and faithful humanity.

Good Friday is God’s way of deepening wounds into wisdom. It is God’s way of saying, “I feel your pain. Deeply. To the core of my own being.”

Easter is God’s way of saying, “Wise up. Suffering will not have the last word.”

                                                      Peace,

                                                               Allen

¹Ted Loder, “Gather Me to Be with You,” Guerillas of Grace: Prayers for the Battle, Augsburg Fortress Press, Minneapolis, MN. 1981, pp. 76-77.

²http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/19982.Frederick_Buechner