“Easter Service—Presente! They are Here!”
The Reverend Cecilia Kingman Miller, Interim Minister
Edmonds Unitarian Universalist Church
March 23, 2008
Family Time
“The Road to Emmaus”
This is a story from a long, long time ago. Sometimes stories from long ago are hard to understand. We want them to make sense the way math makes sense: 1+1 = 2. But storytellers know that a good story doesn’t make sense right away. A good story is more like a poem—each person has to figure out for themselves what it means, if anything.
This story I am telling to you is over two thousand years old. People are still trying to figure it out. I am still trying to make sense of it. Maybe you will have some ideas about it, too.
As the wise ones say, I don’t know if this really happened, but I know that it is true.
This is the week that we remember the life and death of Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet and wise man who gathered a community about him and taught them a new way of living. They called him Teacher, and he called them his disciples. After Jesus died on that terrible day in Jerusalem, his friends and disciples were lost in grief. They didn’t know how they could carry on without their beloved Teacher.
Just a few days after his death, two of the disciples were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about all these things that had happened.
While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but they did not recognize him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.* Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’
He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth,* who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’
Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are and how slow of heart.” Then, beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening, and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us* while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem, and they found the other disciples gathered together.
They were saying, ‘The Teacher has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’* They were startled and terrified and thought that they were seeing a ghost.
He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet.* While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Today we remember the experience of shock that the disciples felt. We ask what a story about a dead man being seen alive again can mean…if it didn’t happen, then where is its truth? In our church, we live in the questions not in the answers. I think this is a good question for today.
Readings
Adapted from Eugene Navias
Who is to say what Easter is that we should celebrate this day and sing for joy?
Easter is promises remembered and fulfilled, of death and life and all that lies therein. It is the promise of the planets in their turn, the infinite fidelity of stars and suns and seasons.
Easter is Winter promising to Spring that earth shall yield its death to life again.
It is the growth promise of the dormant seed, the barren meadow and the naked bough.
It is the birth promise of all creatures which have life and breath and being.
Easter is ancient sorrows stilled and hopes remembered. It is the memory of Jesus dying in Jerusalem.
It is the promise that his life shall never die as long as we still seek to dwell within his ways.
It is the promise that the heart shall be reborn as hatred dies and love is given birth.
It is the promise that the mind shall be renewed as ignorance is lost to newfound truth.
Easter is the promise that the beloved community cannot be disrupted even by death.
Easter is a song of life which springs from death, a joyous human song, forever Alleluia sung.
“Cautionary” by J. Barrie Shepherd
These weeks right after Easter
are the tricky ones,
when bulbs and blossoms,
shrubs and trees are screaming,
Look at me! I’m risen!
This is what your rolling rock
and empty tomb are actually all about
dressed up in fancy fairy tale.
And digging in is called for,
the ability to smile at every siren
song of springtime yet preserve
the rich astonishment, the sheer,
insane, once-and-for-all abandon of
that breakfast by the shore,
the broken bread beside the road,
those hands and side.
Sermon
I confess, I do not understand Easter. Our Unitarian faith was born out of a belief that Jesus was not divine, and our Universalist side tells us that God did not use his death as a ransom for our sins. Our faith does not place any emphasis upon the resurrection nor make much of the miracle stories surrounding Jesus’ death.
If you ask me, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are the compelling days. On Thursday Jesus entered Jerusalem knowing he would be arrested and likely killed, because he was seen as a threat to the standing order, to that system of domination called the Roman Empire. He was martyred on Friday, killed like any common criminal.
I can understand his martyrdom. It fits with the stories of King and Gandhi and all those who have gone to their deaths with foreknowledge. They gave their lives in order that others might have more freedom, more justice, more life. This is easy theology for me.
But the events at the tomb, the later appearance on the road to Emmaus, these are often beyond my comprehension. How am I to experience Easter when I doubt its validity? Is it possible for us to have a uniquely Unitarian approach to this holiday? Can we indeed have a theology of resurrection?
Life out of death is spring’s story. We who have waited through the seemingly endless cold and dark, we who have known many days of damp and despair; we wait for the signal of new life. These heady days of brilliant flowers unfolding, these tell us our wait has been worth it. The promise of new life is fulfilled. The sun rises. The renewal comes.
And with this greenly springing, we are reminded of our own capacity for new life. Our creative, regenerative powers are renewed. Easter, a celebration of fertility and life-giving energy, breathes a promise to each of us—a promise of life’s power. Maybe I could find sufficient meaning for Easter in these metaphors of renewal.
But this story of the resurrection is so oddly compelling. To make sense of it I have to remember the difference between the words resuscitation and resurrection. Resuscitation means to restore a physical body to life. Resurrection means a transformation of life from one form to another. The change from winter to spring does not involve resuscitation. It is the transformation from dormancy to vibrancy that spring embodies.
So it is with biblical accounts of the resurrection of Jesus. According to biblical scholars such as Marcus Borg, none of the early texts refer to a body restored from death to life. This is a later theological construct placed onto the earlier stories.
People in other times and cultures have seen the veil between the living and the dead as much more porous than we do. Many religious traditions have stories of resurrected beings. In fact, the followers of Jesus were squarely within Hellenistic understandings of the difference between the physical body and the spiritual body. The words that are used to differentiate these bodies are loosely translated as “body animated by soul” and “body animated by spirit.”
Paul, in describing the resurrection, uses this metaphor to relate the two bodies: The physical body is to the resurrected body as a seed is to a full-grown plant. The same life, yet vastly different. It is a body transformed.
And yet, this too can be confusing for us. It’s sometimes said that Unitarians are more literal than fundamentalists—and as scientific and literally minded people we want to know: What did Jesus’ followers experience that gave rise to these stories of resurrection? Could there be an occurrence that does not ask us to suspend the laws of physics and yet is still startling two thousand years later? To put it simply, what the heck happened that day?!
One entry to understanding Easter is to look at the events surrounding martyrdom in our own time. Perhaps a modern martyr story can provide a window for us.
Tomorrow is the 28th anniversary of the death of Oscar Romero. You may know his story. Romero was the martyred archbishop of El Salvador, murdered in 1980 by the right wing military regime. He is now being considered for canonization as a saint much, much sooner than most martyrs.
One of the reasons for this early consideration is the frequent sightings of Romero throughout the Salvadoran countryside. The people of El Salvador say that Romero lives, that he walks among them, that death could not contain him. What could explain this phenomenon? Well, there are similarities between the story of the archbishop and that other famous resurrection.
Romero began his tenure as archbishop as a fairly conservative man. The people were unhappy about his appointment, for it was clear that he was chosen for his quiet moderation. Yet, within just a few months, after the killing of his closest friend and the massacre of student protestors, Romero was converted to the cause of the oppressed.
Romero was deeply influenced by the work of some of his fellow priests—a new teaching called liberation theology—that says that God is most concerned with the poor and the oppressed and takes up their cause in history. This teaching was considered subversive, and those who preached it were often killed. Yet these priests had found the face of God in the poor, and they could not turn away.
During the three years he was archbishop, Romero grew ever more outspoken against the military regime. In live radio broadcasts from the cathedral, he called the members of the death squads into repentance. He refused to be silent, even as death threats came. He wrote, “Anyone committed to the poor must suffer the same fate as the poor. And in El Salvador we know the fate of the poor: to be taken away, to be tortured, to be jailed, to be found dead.”
As the threats multiplied, Romero spoke increasingly of his willingness to die for El Salvador. I don’t mean to imply that this was easy for him. He was afraid. Once, when he heard a car slow down outside his little ground floor apartment, he grew fearful and nearly ran into the woods to hide. He would not, however, accept protection for himself. He said just nine months before his death, “The shepherd does not want security while they give no security to his flock.” Romero refused to go into exile even when his friends begged him. In fact, Romero even offered to take the place of the disappeared, to ransom himself for them.
Romero had given his life completely. He did not flinch from his work even when he realized his martyrdom was imminent. He trusted that God would use his life and his death, if necessary, for the liberation of his people. He knew that the work required to bring in the reign of love, the rule of mutual respect, the kingdom of God some call it - that work will take longer than the lifetimes we have to give.
As Romero wrote in a letter to his priests: This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We are prophets of a future not our own.
Two weeks prior to his death, Romero was interviewed by a journalist who asked him about the threats against his life. Romero responded, “If the threats are carried out, from this moment I offer my blood to God for the redemption and for the resurrection of El Salvador. Let my death be for my people’s liberation and as a witness of hope in the future.”
Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero y Galdamez was murdered while saying an evening mass for a small group of sisters and lay people. He was mourned round the world, but no one grieved him more than the peasants who loved him.
Oscar Romero’s martyrdom riveted the world’s attention to the plight of Latin American people. Romero’s blood did redeem and resurrect El Salvador in a very real and concrete way. And in his country there are these sightings of him now. The stories ring with the language of resurrection—the body as spirit. The people say that Romero is “Presente!” Here among us!
Romero lives on around the world as an example of fidelity to the cause of justice and mercy. His example called me into the ministry, and he is one of my heroes. I keep his picture in my office, and every day Romero asks me what I am willing to risk for the cause of love.
As most of you know, I spend half of each week here in Edmonds and the other half with my family down in Portland. Last week while I was here, I received a phone call from my daughter, India, at home in Portland. She was excited, as only a teenaged girl can be, and she said to me rapidly, “Mom, on Thursday there is a huge national student walkout against the war! At 11:00 everyone is going to walk out of their classes and go downtown for a big protest. I’m going to go!”
Now, my kids and I have been to a lot of protests. And India is a very political kid and has organized letter writing campaigns and other action efforts over the years. I’m proud of her interest and passion.
But she’s 15 years old.
And as she talked, the image came into my mind of the anarchists who tried to push over a city bus at the last protest in Portland and the swift response of the police on horseback.
“Who are you going with?” I asked cautiously.
“A bunch of us. Hundreds of us. It’s high school kids who organized the protest.”
This didn’t make me feel any better. “India, I’m not so sure that this is a good idea….I mean…what if something happens—“
“Mom,” she said, her voice suddenly calm and steady, “I’m not asking your permission. Even if you tell me not to go, I’m going. It’s the WAR, Mom.”
As I heard her say this something in me shifted. I agreed that she could go, indeed should go, must go…and I thought of my friend Bongane from my years in seminary. Bongane was a young man from South Africa who had been one of the youngest student leaders in the struggle against apartheid. He was eleven when he was first involved and fourteen when the police came to take him from his grandmother’s home. He was detained, and beaten, and yet he kept returning to the student led protests.
I was amazed by his courage and inspired by these stories of the students who refused to submit any longer to a fascist and oppressive regime.
My kids had spent many evenings underfoot as Bongane shared with me his stories of the student movement. They’d grown up hearing adults discuss non-violent organizing and social change theory. Every morning and every evening of their lives as they brushed their teeth they’d seen the quote from St. Francis I’d long ago taped to the mirror: Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.
And I was supposed to tell India not to make her stand on the streets of lovely Portland where the cops generally don’t arrest white, pretty, pony-tailed girls with peace signs painted on their jeans?
The afternoon of the protest I was at home in Portland, and my cell phone rang. It was India calling to tell me that they were arresting kids. My heart went into my mouth, and I was afraid for my child. But her voice was happy and calm. “Mom,” she said, “We’re on the steps of city hall. I climbed up on the columns and led chants, and it was incredible. Now we’re going to march some more. Don’t worry, they are only arresting anarchists.”
I could hear India’s power through the phone. I could hear her clarity too. She had told me that morning that I was not to excuse her absence—that she would take the penalty for skipping. “What else do I have to give up?” she asked me. “What else do I have to sacrifice when other people are dying?”
When I heard her say that, I was ashamed of my fear. What else do I have to give up?
The priest and activist Daniel Berrigan says that we are more in love with normalcy than we are with peace. We are going about our daily lives trying to keep normalcy intact, but the peace we say we want will disrupt normalcy. It will require sacrifice, discomfort, and perhaps even pain. It will require that we die to our old ways in order to live new lives of courage and passion. What else do we have to give up but normalcy?
Romero is not the only martyr said to transcend death in Latin America. The men and women who gave their lives that others might have life, who were killed for challenging systems of domination—these martyrs are said to live on among the people.
The poet Renny Golden says it far better than I could. Golden, an American who lived among the people of El Salvador, wrote a collection of poems to honor the martyrs. One poem commemorates the martyrdom of six priests, their housekeeper, and her daughter at the Jesuit University of El Salvador in 1989. These Jesuits were targeted for their teachings of liberation theology. The most talented and renowned liberation theologians, including Ignacio Ellacuria and Ignacio Martin-Baro, were among the martyrs.
The poem is titled “Ad sum.” Ad sum is the priest’s response when he is called for ordination. It means, “I am here.”
In the poem’s first stanzas, Golden describes the plotting of the military as they prepare for the killings. Then she recounts the attack on the small building that housed the priests and the housekeeping staff. The Jesuits were awoken in the night by the soldiers and taken outside.
Golden writes:
Lt. Espinosa calls each name,
orders them to lie face down.
Some are dragged;
others walk forward, answering
a call that has reached them
across years, oceans, the heave
of grave upon grave.
The answer: Ad Sum, spoken
on ordination day so many years before
as young deacons, lying prostrate
on a church marble floor
drenched with incense, rose lupine,
young men who answered a God
who would escape their adulation
[…]
a God who reappears as a campesina,
hungry and exhausted,
with a child on her hip,
a God of the despised,
of peasants, of women.
Prostrate again the Jesuits lie against an earth,
heavy with a mulch of seeds and crushed flowers.
“Bishop, Lieutenant, my people,
Ad Sum. I am here.
[…]
In the morning soldiers march
past the Bishop’s residence, shouting:
“We’ll go on killing communists.
Ellacuria and Martin-Baro have already fallen.”
A fifteen-year-old cups his hands to his mouth,
checks for a clear running path, then shouts back:
“Risen! Ellacuria and Martin-Baro have already risen!”
Joaquin Lopez y Lopez
Ad sum.
Ignacio Ellacuria
Ad sum.
Amando Lopez
Ad sum.
Elba Ramos
Ad sum.
Celina Ramos
Ad sum.
Segunda Montes
Ad sum.
Juan Ramon Moreno
Ad sum.
Ignacio Martin-Baro
Ad sum.
Ad sum. They are here. Resurrection occurs when the community refuses to allow death to take one of their own. The priests are still here, the people say, because they live in us. They are Presente! Alive in community.
It is more than memory that defines resurrection—it is the felt presence of the martyr among the people even after death. And it is the commitment of the community to sustain the work of the one who has fallen. Resurrection can only take place in community—it is the absolute refusal to let death separate the community.
Like Jesus’ disciples, the El Salvadorans know that the deaths of the martyrs did not end their lives. Romero lives on in his people as they continue their struggle for justice and freedom. He is ever present to them, because nothing can end the work of love—not soldiers, not governments, not principalities and powers, not even death. Love always lives on.
Romero’s voice comes to me across the decades, and this week he asks me to declare my commitment to the cause of love--this week in particular, as I wrestle with the grim reality of this terrible war. So much death, so much destruction, and done in my name. Romero asks me to acknowledge that complicity, to put myself on the line for it, and even to allow my own precious child to do so.
The martyrs ask me: Do I indeed love the poor, love justice, love this earth and all her creatures? Do I love them more than normalcy?
Whether we are Christian or pagan or Unitarian Universalist, Easter tells us that life cannot be contained by death. Easter claims the meaning of our lives present against the reality of our death. Easter means that we can say with the people of Latin America:
Romero has risen.
Ellacuria has risen.
Martin-Ramos has risen.
Ghandi has risen.
King has risen.
Jesus has risen.
Hope has risen.
Love has risen.
ASHE. AMEN. And blessed be.
