Nothing prevents God, Alleluia!

Twelve years ago this week, I was in a production of the musical Godspell. If you’re not familiar, Godspell is a musical about the life and parables of Jesus, and each character plays a loose depiction of a disciple following along the story towards Jesus’ death. That week, twelve years ago, was also the same week of the bombing of the Boston marathon, an event and a narrative that captured the attention of America as we watched the tragedy, the shock, the confusion, and manhunt unfold. It was a challenging week to open a show about the freedom and joy to be found in the Gospel, especially as presented by a musical theatre interpretation.

This year for Easter, I have heard from many clergy colleagues that a message of Easter joy feels harder to preach or discover this year. I don’t think that you have to be clergy to recognize that many aspects of our life these days feel fragile, anxiety-ridden, divided, unstable, leaving many people unsure about what the future may hold. There are real threats to people’s safety, rules of order and decorum being broken or ignored, and this is on top of people’s personal struggle, heartache, trauma, and grief.

When I was in that production of Godspell twelve years ago, the director made an incredible decision to have a priest who was also a member of the theatre community essentially come alongside the cast and run Bible studies and give us some biblical dramaturgy or background knowledge to allow for us to understand the stories we were telling even more. On our opening night, he sent the cast an email, some encouragement to tell the story we had prepared, even in the midst of heartache or shock because of the happenings in Boston. Among other run of the mill opening night things, he wrote to us:

"It's about staring violence in the face and rising above it. It's about turning the other cheek. It's about embracing hope and community and love after some mad bomber blows up innocent people."

Today, we hear from Luke’s gospel a less clear version of the resurrection. Unlike John’s Gospel, our other option for Easter Day, at the empty tomb, we don’t see Jesus. We hear of the community of women who come to the tomb, at early dawn—so its likely still a bit dark— carrying their spices, preparing to anoint Jesus’ body, all to find him not there. We hear of their terror when instead two men in dazzling white suddenly show up with the women. They ask the women why they look for the living among the dead, that he has risen, and remind them of the times that Jesus himself told them this. And in the midst of their confusion, their fear, their grief, they return to the apostles and tell them what they have seen.

When we think of Easter, we think of loud joyful alleluias, the beautification of our spaces, the way this one has been beautified, of triumphant and glorious music. But this first Easter was quiet, filled equally with belief and disbelief, wrapped in confusion. This community of women, in the midst of their heartache, in the midst of their fear and sadness, confusion and deep grief, go about the tasks that make up their livelihood. After standing at the cross, witnessing the violence of Jesus’ death, they move into care for Jesus, even in death, as a means of processing that trauma and grief. And they do it together.

In a time when we might also feel surrounded by belief and disbelief, wrapped in confusion, grasping for a sense of hope, it is the wisdom and practice of these women where we might find guidance, find that hope. I mentioned this at the Good Friday service as well, but in John’s passion narrative, Jesus makes a point, while on the cross, to point his grieving followers and family towards one another. Jesus desires for us, to find comfort and hope within community, within relationship with our neighbor. This is how we enact, how we live out hope, community, and love—by muddling through the confusion together, by comforting one another in our sorrows, by helping one another recognize and witness these glimmers of hope, by celebrating with one another in joy. This is a reason why I as your priest strongly encourage attendance at Holy Week offerings—because of the community it creates—especially in a community our size—for living through the last days of Jesus together.

Just these last few days during Holy Week alone, I have witnessed:

—     Our community making space for one another in illness, and stepping up to support or cover so that others could rest

—     People within our community stepping out on a limb, not being afraid to try a new thing, a new way of embodying their faith

—     People here being moved by the offerings of one another’s gifts

—     Newcomers finding welcome here, or the possibility of a ministry they are called to

—     People supporting one another in their calls to ministry and acts of faith, even if they aren’t sure what the end result is

—     Someone sharing with me that they are learning that their faith, their relationship with God, helps calm their anxiety

—     Meticulous care and movement towards transparency and understanding in the business matters of the church

—     The healing power, even momentarily, of a real and authentic conversation

—     A community that prepares for and makes ready our physical space for Easter

—     Tears over the relevance of the Good Friday story to our lives today

—     The joyful, holy return of hallelujahs

—     Care for the well being and experience of children in our community

—     Time taken to recall and remember our loved ones who are with God, through flowers, and story and a multitude of other ways

—     Acceptance and welcoming of a priest and mother who needs to officiate Good Friday with a sick toddler on her back

—     Honest conversations about how one person sharing their grief journey has allowed another person to reconsider their own grief journey

—     And now, today, we all get to be witness to this kind of welcoming, open, loving community in the sacrament of Baptism! Today we officially, sacramentally, welcome Nicole and Allie into the Body of Christ. What a joyous act of hope, indeed.

If you have been around Trinity for a baptism with me, you know that one of the stories I love to share when it comes to baptism is one from the Book of Acts, where one character in the story—expressing a desire to be baptized—comes along a body of water and proclaims to his companion: Here is water—what is to prevent me from being baptized!

And the answer is NOTHING.

Nothing prevents us from being a part of the family of God. Nothing prevents us from the presence and nearness of God. Nothing prevents God from overcoming the violence, the hatred, the desire for power, the grief, and mourning, loss and loneliness happening to us and all around us. Even when we, like the women and the apostles, experience an unclear resurrection encounter, or don’t understand how or why or really anything thing about the holy mystery of the empty tomb or  the risen Christ—nothing prevents God from overcoming death. And it was in the midst of their ordinary lives, on an extraordinary morning at dawn that these women, in the commonality of their grief, shared this holy word, of God overcoming death; shared the holy story, of Jesus who had seemingly risen, just as he said he would;  shared the holy invitation to a community and a kin-dom, where nothing keeps us from, prevents us from, the expansive, boundary breaking, world upending love of God.

And with that, I invite those to be baptized to come forward, and ask the question again, Look, here is water, what is to prevent me from being baptized?