Resurrection

The Death of Death       By Scott Cairns

Put fear aside. Now

that he has entered

into death on our behalf,

all who live

no longer die

as men once died.

That ephemeral occasion

has met it's utter end

As seeds cast to the earth, we

will not perish,

but like those seeds

shall rise again - the shroud

of death itself having been

burst to tatters

by love's immensity

Love's Immensity: Mystics on the Endless Life, by Scott Cairns. Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2007. p. 14

What do I write about?     In this season of Easter,  what do I write about?     Should I write about Resurrection?     About New Life?     In this season of Easter, when life is returning to our world, springing up, green and renewed,   what do I write about today?

I could write about resurrection – about Jesus walking out of the tomb.     Sort of like a museum piece – brought out as a curiosity – an artifact of a by-gone era.                                                 

I could write about the idea of – the possibility of – the various kinds of resurrections in our lives.     I could write about the potential, of what it might look like in our lives today.           

It’s easy to write about resurrection…  in theory.    “Theory” is easy to write about.    With “theory, you don’t have to look too deep at all.      There’s no real challenge with “Theory” .       Here’s an example:       What if someone asked you, “Do we, as people, sin?”     “Sure!”    In theory… sure.     “Okay, do you – as a person – sin?”  “Yes”   … in theory. 

Okay, what if Mr. Theory asked you to name them?    Then what?   What of Mr. Theory gave you a pencil and some paper and seated you in a room, with pictures of your life, with books filled with images, with video of you in various places and times in your life, and asked you to name your sins.    What would “theory” be like then? 

Now, what if you were asked to look at that same life of yours and pick out the resurrections?    What would the word “resurrection” mean to you then?     What would it mean to you if you had to look at the times and places you were once “dead” or “dying” …

Now… what do the words “Death” and “Dying” mean to you?    Are they just words too?   “Theory” again…  like sin? ……      Or resurrection?             

I still remember the Monks words, as if I’d heard them myself.    He was a Zen Buddhist monk, invited to lead some Christian monks during a silent retreat.    He was invited to ask them a question, to lead them with a question…     

“Show me your resurrection”

  A Better Resurrection    by Christina Rossetti

     I have no wit, no words, no tears;

           My heart within me like a stone

     Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;

           Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

     I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief

           No everlasting hills I see;

     My life is in the falling leaf:

           O Jesus, quicken me.

     My life is like a faded leaf,

           My harvest dwindled to a husk:

     Truly my life is void and brief

           And tedious in the barren dusk;

     My life is like a frozen thing,

           No bud nor greenness can I see:

     Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring;

           O Jesus, rise in me.

     My life is like a broken bowl,

           A broken bowl that cannot hold

     One drop of water for my soul

           Or cordial in the searching cold;

     Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;

           Melt and remould it, till it be

     A royal cup for Him, my King:

           O Jesus, drink of me.

These things are our challenge – here.  Us Middle-Class suburbanites.  Us 21^st Century Americans;

We live in a world of constant entertainment,  of business,     of busy-ness….  Of movement, movement until we can’t move any more.      Then we collapse in a heap, gearing up for next time.   

I remember one of my friends spoke about this, about us really , all of us Christians here in this place and time in history.      This might really be how we think of God –  she said  “God is a nice addition to an otherwise good life.”      

See, we have everything we need.     We’ve got a place to live that we (generally) like.   We have as much food as we could want- and not want.   We have dependable personal transportation.     We have access to healthcare in varying degrees of quality – but still more access to it than many people in the world have.     We have a society marked by order and civility for the most part.   Many places in the world don’t have this kind of security.     And if something in our lives goes wrong, we know who to take it to (or who to bring to us) to get that thing fixed;   Our washing machines, our cars, our toilets,  our  teeth.    You name it,  there’s someone there trained to fix it – or replace it.        

And, like a cherry on top of the milk shake of life, we have God!   Is it rue we often relegate God to being a wonderful addition for an otherwise good life?   I wonder?   

For many of us here in American Suburbia, “Faith” can easily become a thing put on a shelf, not really needed on a daily basis.  But we know it’s there when we do need it.    Or like a precious museum piece.   Are we running through the museum of faith, reading the notes, looking at the exhibits, listening to the audio stories about the artifacts behind the cases?   

Or do we take out the items, and hold them,  and live with them,  and feel their energy?   

How often do our prayers feel empty, really hoping they reach their intended destination?    Do we pray with a heart filled with hope, with pain,  with joy, with sorrow?   Do the words we speak in prayer reflect what’s in our minds, our hearts, our souls?      When we pray, are our hearts, our minds, our lives remembering the words spoken?     Are we re-living the moments our mouths speak of in the prayers?      Are our minds and hearts filled with the words we’re saying?        With the feeling of life?       The feeling of life in all its valleys and peaks?     I mean really full?     Or partially full…

      Digging     By Seamus Heaney, "Digging" from Death of a Naturalist.

      Between my finger and my thumb   

      The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

      Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

      When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

      My father, digging. I look down

      Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

      Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

      Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

      Where he was digging.

      The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

      Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

      He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

      To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

      Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

      By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

      Just like his old man.

      My grandfather cut more turf in a day

      Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

      Once I carried him milk in a bottle

      Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

      To drink it, then fell to right away

      Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

      Over his shoulder, going down and down

      For the good turf. Digging.

      The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

      Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

      Through living roots awaken in my head.

      But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

      Between my finger and my thumb

      The squat pen rests.

      I’ll dig with it.

“Show me your resurrection”  he told them.     “Show me your resurrection.”      This isn’t theory!    It’s real.     “Show me your resurrection.”    Do we answer this with : “I don’t know what you mean.”     Or, “What is resurrection?”      Or do we take the time – to listen, to slow down, and listen – and look at those books full of the pictures of our lives, look around that room with the photos on the walls…. of moments in our lives where we were resurrected?     

What do we answer?       …..“Show me your resurrection”…      

I am not a poet    by siki dlanga

I am not a poet
I just know the everyday is miraculous everyday
I see leaves dancing to an invisible song and I acknowledge it
The sun laughs in the sky and I laugh back
I am not a poet
I just realize the last breath I took was a divine act the next one too
My eyes marvel at the reflection on the mirror not because of my own beauty but for the wonder of sight
I am not a poet
I see lovers eyes hugging as they stare
And I sing them a song only I hear
I smile at the child with a dummy
I am not a poet
I am amused and I respond with bellows of laughter
I hear a musician play and my body sings with a dance
I am not a poet
I was never a poet
I hear the melody of words in the silence of chaos
The same way leaves dance to the invisible hum or thud
The same way waves move towards the shore
The same way humans breathe
The audience to an incredible performance
I am not a poet
I am just alive to life
I feel the touch and my heart remembers
I see and my mind applauds or frowns
I am not a poet
I am just alive
I taste and my tongue skips with joy
I look at the pain of others and I pray and God responds
I am not a poet I am just alive
The same way the night knows when to give way to the morning
The same way stars shine at night even when we do not see their light in the city
The same way clouds sometimes paint the sky
I am not a poet                                                                                                                                    I have never been a poet
I am alive to life and have always applauded the wondrous fading magnificence
I have always hoped for what was, could be and will be or                                                            Grieve at what will be if we do not

Resurrection… we could leave this in the realm of “theory”.     We could say:  “Yeah, we all have resurrection moments.  Sure.”        Another walk down one of the wings of the museum of faith.      Theory!    Non-threatening theory!      Or, we could slow down,     and     listen and look...            And remember the moments where we indeed were resurrected!      Moments where things looked dark, and overcast –     moments in our lives where life seemed uncertain- possibly your physical life, maybe your professional life, your personal life, or any other part of your life!     Moments where you felt you wanted to quit,    where you didn’t know what was coming,    and you had to rely of God’s touch to continue on.    And God did indeed touch you,   and restore you,     to wholeness,   to well-ness,   to life again!    Resurrection!        I don’t mean theory,  I mean for real.    

This season of Easter – of New Life – remember those moments again, those moments in your own life.    And know that our God is a God of restoration!       Know that our God is a God of Resurrection!                 

Let us thank God for resurrection!      

Amen and Amen!