Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

April 12, 1998

"Break up your fallow ground, and sow not among thorns."

Jeremiah 4:3

Last week I visited with a young man who had insisted on seeing me, though he had attended church only once or twice. He had to see me, he told my secretary. And so he came. He was a remarkably bright and engaging young man, in his late 20's perhaps. As his story unfolded, I knew why he was sitting there in my office—he was "threatened with resurrection." You see, he wanted to break through into a new way, a new direction. He was intelligent, well educated, fluent—but there was a restlessness about him, a deep dissatisfaction. He said that he wanted work that he could do with all his heart, work that would express the deepest parts of himself, work—in his words--that would make the world a better place. He had done a little of this, a little of that, but had not found his true calling.

And then he began to speak of his father. His father was a minister, a bishop no less, and had taught his son about duty in work, but not about joy. This young man wanted more than anything to please his father, to be the good son his father wanted him to be. "You need your father's blessing," I said. And he answered in sadness and confusion, "Yes, but I don't believe I can get his blessing. You see, I'm gay, and I've never been able to tell my father that. I believe he would reject me."

And so this young man feels immobilized. Keeping his secret is shutting him down in all kinds of ways. He wants to get on with his life. What will release him? The very thing that he most fears—standing up to his father, saying, "Dad, this is who I am. I want your blessing. I need your blessing. But if you can't give it, I release you from your fatherly duty. I will live my life, free, unashamed. I will develop my powers and own my strength and give myself in the way I was meant to do. With or without your blessing." Then a greater blessing than his father's will be his. Then the resurrection, the new life, can begin. He will find that invitations will pour in from the universe, because he will no longer be bound by his fear.

Let's go back now for a few minutes to the original resurrection story. After Jesus' crucifixion and burial, the authorities had rolled a great stone in front of the tomb so that no one could steal the body and then say Jesus had arisen from the dead. And so on Sunday when the women-—Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome came with sweet spices to anoint the body, as was the custom in those days, they were wondering who would move the stone for them. But when they arrived, they saw that the stone had been rolled away, and there was a young man in a long white garment sitting there on the right side of the tomb. And he said to them, "You seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified: he is risen. Go your way, tell his disciples and Peter that you shall see him in Galilee." And then notice how the women responded: "They fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them." I like that translation: "For terror and amazement had seized them." That's how the possibility of resurrection often makes us feel.

Now sometimes the Easter story is difficult for Unitarian Universalists, but that's because some of us think we have to take it literally or not at all. But why should we give this story to the fundamentalists? We should remember that stories are used in the service of truth. The story doesn't have to be true for the truth to rest in it. In fact, through careful crafting in the imagination, the truth of a story will enter our consciousness at a deeper level that any literal retelling of events. The Easter story is a powerful universal myth about transformation, about how it calls to us, yet threatens us. About how it comes as a surprise. About how its demands astound and confuse us. About how we flee, as did the women, in "terror and amazement."

First the women saw Jesus, and they ran and told the disciples, who didn't believe them. Then Jesus appeared to the disciples, in the guise of a stranger. They didn't recognize him until their eyes were opened, and then they were "terrified and affrighted," the scripture says (Luke 24:37). If Jesus was alive, if hope was alive, if death is not the end after all, then all their understanding, all their assumptions, their whole world view had to change. No wonder Thomas said, "Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe." If love is more powerful than death, then nothing in their lives would ever be the same again.

The disciples had run from the scene of the crucifixion, in utter terror lest they share the fate of Jesus. They hid out then and talked about the good old days when Jesus was alive, and they bemoaned the loss of their dream, their dream of the leader who would take them out of bondage to the Romans. They were political refugees, frightened and confused. But notice the change after Jesus appeared to them: they became bold preachers, risking their lives telling others about this extraordinary man they had come to know, who had been killed by the authorities, and yet who was with them still.

They preached the words of Jesus: "You must lose your life to find it. Unless you die to yourself, your life cannot be saved." Come into your power through surrender? Relinquish control, and you will receive all you need? Lose? Relinquish? Surrender? These are not words that are easy to hear. The paradox seems foolish to us—we know that winning is all. Or do we? We begin to doubt that when we win and win and win, but still feel like losers. We begin to doubt that when we have set lofty goals and accomplished those goals, only to feel even more empty inside. "What next?" we ask ourselves. "Isn't there any more?" Yes, there is more, there is so much more. But we'll never get it through conquering and achieving. The Jesus story is about finding yourself by giving yourself away. It is through the broken one on the cross that the fullness of the Mystery is disclosed.

Easter is essentially about fidelity. God's faithfulness to us. If we see the Easter story as simply the story of a good, innocent man who is crucified and is buried in a borrowed tomb and that's the end of it, where does that leave us? Pretty much with nowhere to go. Poet Kathleen Norris recalls her thoughts as a child when she saw a TV show about Jesus dying on the cross:

I love Jesus; I love to sing about him. But now the story changes; something new, as dark as the clouds behind Jesus' face. He is nailed to a cross; he is going to die. I have never seen a movie where someone dies, especially Jesus. How can I sing about him anymore if he dies? I run into the kitchen, where my grandmother Norris is cleaning a fish. I am in tears. It is Good Friday, she tells me, good because it's the day Jesus died, because he died to take away my sins. I don't know what this means. I am transfixed by the fish's eye. Something is wrong here, very wrong. I go to my room, climb inside my wardrobe, and shut the door. . . . . I'm not going to come out, ever. The grown-ups have gone crazy, or they've lied to me . . . what a terrible world this is, where Jesus dies.

Without the resurrection, the story leaves us with God's indifference. "What a terrible world this is, where Jesus dies." Jesus cries out from the cross, as we cry out in our despair, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" But that's not the end of the story. Then comes the resurrection. The resurrection is the part of the story that tells us God is faithful to the creation, to the claims of relationship to us. But God does not always come in ways we might anticipate. The arisen Jesus reveals himself to the disciples as a stranger, a compelling stranger. The other. The unknown. With the Holy One, there are always surprises. God is beyond prediction, beyond control, beyond expectation.

Why, why, why is it so hard for us to be in the presence of the living God, to accept resurrection? Why is it that the woman who is beaten regularly stays in the relationship? Why do we stay in the job that we hate, reluctantly trudging off to work? "Only 14 more years, and I can retire," we say to ourselves. Fourteen years! Why do we tell ourselves that our deepest desires are but foolishness and chide ourselves for dreaming? Where do we hide the part of ourselves that is like this beautiful young man who came to my office, crying out for meaning, wanting to make a difference in the world? Wanting acceptance of ourselves as we are. Longing to say no to the forces that would keep us from becoming who we were meant to be. Why is it so hard to move from death to new life?

Part of our reluctance simply comes from sheer habit, I think. Repeated actions become a way of being, and the familiar feels good. Even if it feels bad, it feels good, if you know what I mean. It feels right. Congruent with the way the world is, as we've come to know it. A child is given the message that his needs don't count, and so he grows up and finds a spouse who gives him the same message. At least the world is consistent that way.

I'm remembering Mrs. Findley. When my husband and I lived in Liverpool, England, early in our marriage, we would travel down to Stratford-on-Avon from time to time to see the plays of Shakespeare. And when we did, we always stayed in a bed and breakfast run by Mrs. Findley, whose home had been built in the 16^th century. She seemed almost that old herself--and that charming. She was set in her ways, though. Every morning she served us burnt toast with our English breakfast. When I finally ventured to ask her why the toast was always burnt, she said that years ago her toaster had broken and so the toast always burned. She got used to it, she said, and now even with her new toaster, she intentionally burned the toast. "It tastes better that way, don't you think?" With both big and little things, habit finally begins to rule, and it just tastes better that way. We stop questioning what is.

And then we are afraid of the unknown. Just as the disciples were afraid of the compelling stranger that met them on the road. What new waters are we being pulled into? We know how to swim here in the shallows. Let's not venture into the deeper pool. Let me tell you about a business acquaintance of mine. She's about my age, and for years and years and years, she took care of her aging parents, one of whom had Alzheimer's disease. She had a boyfriend, too, but she would not consider marriage because of her obligations to her parents. Then as time went on, the parents died, one within six months of the other. After a while, I said to her, "Well, you have a whole new life before you. What are you planning to do?" She told me that she had "adopted," so to speak, a needy couple from next door. They were ill, and most of her free time was being taken up seeing to their medical needs. What about the boyfriend? "Oh, he's gone," she said. He could see that there would never be time in her life for him. Patterns. Habits. Fear. Change is difficult for all of us, because each change is like a little death. Every learning is also a loss. Letting go is not easy.

And do not think that others will support you in your transformation. Crack through the chrysalis to become a butterfly, and they'll tell you soon enough to go back to being a worm again. Butterflies are—well, a whole new creature! What are they supposed to do with you? No, you'll be disapproved of by many, because they too will have to change to stay in relationship with you. And they would just as soon be comfortable, thank you very much. Who are you to dare to own your own life? You belong to them, don't you? At least in part? I mean, aren't you going to be responsible, for God's sake? For God's sake, yes, be responsible. To God. To the new life within.

Of course there are many ways to avoid resurrection, since birth always has an element of pain. You could intellectualize until you are spinning around in circles, analyzing your problem to death, thereby immobilizing your heart—where the real change must finally happen. You could stay busy, so busy that you are distracted from your pain. Once in a while in a movie or upon hearing an old song, the pain creeps through, but mostly you can keep your real feelings at bay. You could of course give yourself to the addiction of your choice, anything from shopping to work to chocolates to alcohol. As Ogden Nash said, "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker." Choose your poison, as they say. Whatever gives immediate pleasure, but which takes you from your heart's deepest desires. Or how about getting addicted to working out? I read these features in the Oregonian about individuals and their workouts. People say things like, "I live to work out." Or, "I was devastated when my personal trainer left town." Please! You can even avoid change by insincere prayer. I'm thinking of St. Augustine, who had problems with lusting after women. Big problems. His prayer was, "O God, make me celibate! But not just yet, God, not just yet."

At heart we are threatened with resurrection because we know that the foundation upon which we stand will crumble, and that new loyalties will appear. Loyalties of the spirit. We will not have our known world anymore. We can choose to stay in the metaphorical grave, with the stone rolled over the door of our heart. Or we could allow new life. What is the story without the ending?

Spring is the time of planting. "Break up your fallow ground," says the prophet Jeremiah (Jeremiah 4:3), "and sow not among thorns." The resurrection symbolizes a breaking open of the present, a breaking up of the soil of your spirit, and a restructuring of the ground of your reality, so that the seeds of life might have a warm and inviting place to grow. And what is the promise of this gardening of the spirit? If you disturb the soil, what do you have to gain? Your own power of being. A deep sense of peace. Joy. An invitation from the Spirit to partner in creating a world of justice and hope. So be it for you, my friends, on this Easter day. Amen.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.