"Things Fall Apart. The Center Holds."

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood
First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS
Easter Sunday, April 16, 2017

When my children first learned to step onto a moving escalator, they balked - as I’m sure many kids do. An escalator is a thing of mystery. Why is the ground MOVING? And why do the adults seem so calm about it?

As I watched my kids learn to trust that they, too, could move effortlessly up or down stairs by trusting the moving ground beneath their feet, I suddenly remembered my own childhood apprehension about escalators. I can remember my parents waiting patiently beside me, giving me tips, coaxing me to trust that it would be okay.

And I can remember even further back, before I learned to ride an escalator on my own. Digging deeper still, I can remember the joy of riding an escalator in a stroller. I remember how my mom or dad would turn me around backwards and rest the stroller on its back wheels only, propping me upright as we glided through the air together. It was a mystery to me how this all worked, but I remember it being a fascinating change of movement. Held securely in my parent’s grip, I felt safe even as the ground shifted and changed beneath us.

Shifting and changing ground has always seemed problematic to me. Tornados are worrisome but I can prepare. Ashes dropping out of the air every spring seems normal. But earthquakes? No thanks. I really get stressed out about the idea of the actual GROUND shifting beneath my feet. The ground should STAY STILL at ALL TIMES.

Except when it doesn't.

Like in the Resurrection story in the Gospel of Matthew. Each Gospel has a slightly different take on Jesus’s death and resurrection. Matthew’s version, the one we heard today, is the one with earthquakes. As Jesus breathes his last on the cross, there is an earthquake that rips the curtain in the temple from top to bottom. Tombs fly open and those “saints who were asleep” were raised from the dead. The soldiers at the crucifixion were so distressed by the earthquake and the resulting zombie apocalypse they shook with fear and proclaimed, “Truly, this man was God’s son!”

And then...at the scene of the empty tomb, another earthquake. Another shaking of foundations and upending of expectations. Early in the morning when Mary Magdalene and the other Mary (quite possibly Jesus’s mother) went to the tomb, we are told that a second earthquake shook Jerusalem. This aftershock brings with it an angel who rolls away the giant stone covering the door to Jesus’s tomb and perches on it like a bird. This time, the soldiers are so scared that they quiver with fear and are suddenly fall down, paralyzed by fear. The author of Matthew’s gospel says they “became like dead men.”

Given my general sense of anxiety over the ground moving and shifting beneath my feet (an anxiety that is perhaps shared by the soldiers at the tomb - or maybe it was the angel that set them off).....I find the first words out of the angel’s mouth to be somewhat hilarious.

The earth is shaking, the stone is rolled away, the angel is perched on the stone like “no big deal,” the tough guys who are supposed to be guarding this place have fallen down like dead men and this angel’s opening line is this: “Do not be afraid.”

Excuse me, what?

And yet that is what the angel says. He says, “Do not be afraid. Jesus is not here. He has been raised.”

There are times in life when the foundations beneath our feet shake and flex in ways that seem absolutely unsustainable. Whether it’s a quick tug of the rug from beneath our feet or a slow and steady unraveling, we look around and suddenly realize that we are on shaky ground.

It seems to me that we - and I mean we in the broadest, global sense - are perhaps living in such a time. There is a lot of fear these days. We look at our institutions and wonder if they can withstand all the shaking. We look at the seismic shifts in international relations and wonder what the future holds. We weep when we see the violence in the world and we weep again when we realize our inability to fix it all.

I am reminded of a poem that is nearly 100 years old. In the aftermath of World War I, the Irish poet William Butler Yeats looked around at the world with its shaken foundations and proclaimed that all was in ruins.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

“Things fall apart.” Surely these words, or some version of them, echoed in the women’s ears as they slowly walked to Jesus’s tomb that morning. Two things in life are certain, right? Death and taxes. And these women had not only witnessed a gruesome state-sponsored execution but had been there when Joseph of Arimathea buried Jesus’s body. They had seen the large stone rolled in front of the tomb and they knew everything was over. Dead bodies don’t get up and walk again.

Except when they do.

Except when the foundations are pulled apart. When the rug is yanked from beneath our feet. Except when the very earth shakes and quakes. Except when the temple veil is rent in two. Except when tough guys fall down in fear. Except when an angel appears and perches like a bird.

Except when everything we previously believed to be true is suddenly called into question and the world is turned upside down as swiftly and simply as a snow globe and suddenly nothing is certain anymore. Not even death.

It was in the middle of that great “except” that the women heard the words of the angel, “Do not be afraid. He is not here, for he has been raised as he said.”

Things fall apart. On that much, I find myself in agreement with Yeats. But I have to wonder about the next part. Can the center hold?

I have to tell you, it was challenging to get myself in an Easter mood this week when I looked at the world around me. Stories of violence in far off places like Syria and Egypt and Afghanistan and Chechnya. Violence in nearer-by places like San Bernadino and United flights. And the unrelenting news of planes, ships bomb, sabers being rattled by world leaders...these stories beat at us daily and cause us to wonder, “Can the center hold?”

I guess it depends on the center, doesn’t it?

If the center is well-functioning democratic systems, well I don’t know that I’m going to put my money on that forever. If the center is a Pax Americana held together by other nations’ fear of our military powers, well I don’t know that I believe that will hold forever. If the center is my very-human desire to keep me and mine safe for ever and ever amen with no pain, please….well, I think we all know that there are times when that just isn’t possible.

Things do fall apart. And it is into those fallen-apart times, those broken spaces, those moments when everything seems unstable, uncertain, messed up, shaken beyond the point of stability that the Spirit of God blows with a new breath, reminding us to re-center ourselves in Christ.

Reminding us that God’s love for creation cannot be stopped. Reminding us that every end is also a beginning. Reminding us that even death falters at times. Reminding us that the call is always to new beginnings, fullness of life, Resurrection, More.

And I have to think that it was with that reminder breathed into their very beings, re-centered, the women at the tomb did something I find shocking: they did what the angel told them to do. They didn’t ask any questions, in fact, they just ran. The text says “They left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell the disciples.”

And it was in that state, fear-and-joy-mingled-together-as-one that Jesus met them. The text says he called out to them, “Greetings!”  The Greek, chairo, literally means “Rejoice.” So when used as a greeting, it might be better translated into English as “be well!”

“Be well” - Christ says to us. Even death cannot stop God’s love. God still reaches out to us despite shaky foundations and very real anxieties.

Even when things fall apart. Even when we wonder if the center can hold. Perhaps especially when we wonder if the center can hold.

Christ meets us this Easter day in the midst of uncertainty. Christ meets us in the midst of joy and fear and offers himself as our center. A center that can hold.

“Be well” our Center says to us.

May it be so. Amen.

"Breathing Through Death into Life"

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood
First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS
Ezekiel 37:1-14
April 2, 2017

PRE-SCRIPTURE READING
Today’s passage from Ezekiel is a litany of breath. Again and again the prophet repeats the Hebrew word for breath - ruach - like a holy refrain. In our English translations, this word isn’t always translated “breath” because it’s more expansive than just the act of filling our lungs with air. It also means spirit, wind, breeze.

As Jim reads the passage from Ezekiel this morning, I’m going to have him replace the English words for breath, wind, spirit with the Hebrew ruach so we can get a sense of the refrain that happens with this important word.

SERMON
Ezekiel is sometimes called the Prophet of the Spirit because he goes on and on about the ruach - God’s Spirit, the breath of life, the wind that comes from all directions, breathing new life into all things.

Ezekiel wrote during the time of the great Babylonian Exile, about six centuries before Jesus was born. It’s a long book and hard to read because his imagery is often complex and wacky. But the structure of the book is quite simple….most of it is dire warnings from the prophet to God’s people, warning them to get their acts together and do right to avoid God’s wrath. Then there is a section of great hope. The prophet speaks God’s words of care to the people in Exile, assuring them they are not forgotten and that God continues to work for their freedom and salvation.

Today’s passage, of course, comes from the hopeful section. Ezekiel pens a vision of dry, brittle, worn out bones scattered about in a barren desert. These bones are the very dictionary definition of death. There is no life left in them. They are scorched, forgotten, lost.

And yet….

Into this desolate scene, the ruach of God appears. God commands the prophet to blow that spirit of life over the bones. Slowly but surely, the bones start to rattle and shake. Muscles and skin begin to form. The bones come together. But they are still just bones….until.

Until the breath of God - the spirit of God - that great ruach is added into the mix. When the ruach arrives the bones suddenly live again - standing on their feet, a vast multitude.

Have you ever heard such a ridiculous story in all your life? I mean, really. It’s about as silly as today’s Gospel passage from John when Jesus is called to his good friend Lazarus’s home and the man has been dead long enough that his body is starting to smell. And Jesus, undeterred, walks right into the stench, prays, and commands Lazarus to get up and come out.

And he does.

I mean, really!

I mean...really?

As if warming us up for the idea as we draw closer to Holy Week and Easter, the lectionary serves up two powerful stories of Resurrection this morning. This is why, when I say “Resurrection” I’m never just talking about the story of Jesus’s death and resurrection. Resurrection is a whole lot bigger than that one story. The Bible is filled with stories of Resurrection - stories of God breathing new life into forgotten, empty, brittle, dried up places. The same Spirit that moved over the deep at the dawn of creation, gently (or sometimes forcefully) stirring sun-baked bones in dry valleys. That same Spirit speaking, animated by the breath of Jesus, saying firmly, “Lazarus, come out!”

Who is the one who speaks such impossibilities with such authority?

The ruach of our God seems to be unconcerned with limitations and boundaries. The ruach of our God lives somewhere beyond our notions of possible and impossible.

And what I love about these stories, what keeps me coming back to them again and again, is this: we are invited to join that ruach of God out there, beyond the boundaries of “possible” and “impossible.” We are invited to join God there and make our home.

Imagination is a powerful thing. World-renowned biblical scholar, Walter Bruggemann, has written a whole book on what he calls the Prophetic Imagination. It is the particular gift of the prophets, Bruggeman says, to imagine new worlds into being. A prophet is not necessarily someone who tells us the future with a crystal ball. A prophet is one who sees the world as it is and the world as it could be. A prophet is one who names, paints a picture of the current crisis….and then takes the canvas back, scribbles on it some more, and holds up a new portrait of what God intends instead.

In Brueggman’s work there is always the clash between what he calls The Royal Consciousness - a system, culture, worldview that is rooted in hierarchy, the oppression of those who are at the bottom, and the relentless cycle of production and consumption. Think of those enslaved in Egypt toiling under the hot sun as they build magnificent pyramids honoring the elite ruling class. Think of the widow who gave her very last coin to the religious rulers because she feared the consequences of keeping it for herself. Think of a powerful 21st century nation that claims greatness yet cannot find the moral courage to feed the most vulnerable, care for the environment, welcome the stranger. That’s the Royal Consciousness at work.

Pitted against The Royal Consciousness prophets come as agents of resistance. Prophets, quite interestingly, aren’t really ones for policy proposals. They do not create charts and reports with solutions. Instead, they begin with public, and often very creative, artistic lament. They name the pain they see. They weep and wail and cry for the evil present in their world. They mourn over the distance between what is and what should be.

And then, instead of proposing solutions, they skip right over strategy into the realm of dreams. They speak in visions, poetry, song. They paint a picture of a world righted by God’s justice and peace. They don’t usually say HOW to get there but they vividly portray what God’s Realm looks like. Because, after all, how will we know how to get to the destination if we’re not even sure what it looks like?

You may be thinking, “Ugh. Dreamers. Heads in the cloud. Stop complaining unless you have solutions. And don’t give us false hope if you don’t have a plan for how to improve things.”

I know, I know. No one much likes prophets. That’s why they typically get killed. I don’t think God’s asking us to like them. But I do notice that God keeps sending them to us. Again and again. Prophets in every generation that has ever lived. Naming the pain. Weeping and mourning in the public square. Complainers, every single one of them.

And impractical dreamers, too. Painting impossible pictures that make no sense. Dry, dead bones that stand up and walk again. I mean, really.

Really?

Over the centuries, the stories never stop. Stories of the Spirit moving over the waters, breathing new life, blowing in unexpected ways. It turns out, the Spirit seems to have the power to save through the power of Holy Imagination. It turns out that prophets, whether we like them or not, seems to have the power to make real change through their complaining and dreaming.

I want to close with a more recent story. This one is told by Susan Griffin in the collection The Impossible Will Take a Little While:

Even in the grimmest of circumstances, a shift in perspective can create startling change. I am thinking of a story I heard a few years ago from my friend Odette, a writer and a survivor of the holocaust. Along with many others who crowd the bed of a large truck, she tells me, Robert Desnos is being taken away from the barracks of the concentration camp where he has been held prisoner. 

(I want to interject for a moment that Desnos was a French surrealist poet who played an important role in the French Resistance during World War II. He was arrested and imprisoned by the Nazis for his political activities.)

Leaving the barracks, the mood is somber; everyone knows the truck is headed for the gas chambers. And when the truck arrives no one can speak at all; even the guards fall silent. But this silence is soon interrupted by an energetic man, who jumps into the line and grabs one of the condemned.

Improbable as it is, Odette explains, Desnos reads the man's palm. “Oh,” he says, “I see you have a very long lifeline. And you are going to have three children.” He is exuberant. And his excitement is contagious. First one man, then another, offers up his hand, and the prediction is for longevity, more children, abundant joy.

As Desnos reads more palms, not only does the mood of the prisoners change but that of the guards too. How can one explain it? Perhaps the element of surprise has planted a shadow of doubt in their minds. If they told themselves these deaths were inevitable, this no longer seems so inarguable. They are in any case so disoriented by this sudden change of mood among those they are about to kill that they are unable to go through with the executions. So all the men, along with Desnos, are packed back onto the truck and taken back to the barracks. Desnos has saved his own life and the lives of others by using his imagination.

The power of holy imagination. Dreaming new worlds into being through inspiration. Breathing with the ruach that is a gift of God….through death into new life. May it be so. Amen.