March 31, 2002

What shall we do with Easter? Of all the religious holidays which command our attention throughout the year, Easter appears to be the most problematic. We have no difficulty celebrating Buddha’s birthday (probably because Buddha claimed to be nothing more than a man). We leap at the opportunity to celebrate Ramadan (though it includes the miraculous Night of Power in which Muhammad received the first of his revelations). We do not balk at celebrating the “cycle of seasons” (though the stories behind the cycle are of goddesses and gods cavorting and consorting with one another to ensure that love, procreation and fertility may triumph over barrenness, estrangement and death). And we certainly go to great lengths to remind ourselves of Passover (even though its origins are rooted in an undocumented event of impossible proportions). So what is it with Easter? Why do UUs experience fits of spiritual nervousness when we hear stories of the empty tomb? And why is there a catch in our throats when we attempt to sing “Christ the Lord is risen today, Alleluia. Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia?” Perhaps it is because our mythic consciousness has not caught up with our rational consciousness. Perhaps it is because Easter (at least in its Christianized version) is more difficult to secularize than other festivals. Or perhaps it is because we have been unable (or unwilling) to separate the universal message of this holy day from its otherwise fantastic and phantasmagorical trappings. Whatever the reason, we would do well to stop and reconsider, first because we have affirmed that all major religious celebrations should be honored and revered (and Easter is certainly a major religious celebration), and second, because in materials published by the UUA and used to instruct our children Easter is regarded as a most significant Christian festival. Indeed, as the Cycle of Seasons (a publication of the Church of the Larger Fellowship) states: “Most likely named after the Germanic spring goddess Eostre, who was worshipped in ancient celebrations of rebirth each spring, Easter is the holiest day in the Christian year, celebrating Jesus’ resurrection.” So what shall we do with Easter?

There is a recent book on the popular market entitled Excavating Jesus—a most suggestive title. Maybe in order to recapture the meaning of the season, we should dig Jesus up. Of course, there are enormous theological problems with this approach. If the tomb really was empty (as all of the women claimed), then what possibly could we unearth? A stray lock of hair? A bit of dried blood? A shroud in which the corpse was wrapped?

Clearly, John Dominic Crossan and Jonathan L. Reed, authors of the book, do not imply that we can literally “dig up Jesus.” Rather, they argue that archaeology and textual study may serve to enlighten our understanding about the cultural setting, the political clime and the religious communities of first century Palestine. If we excavate tombs and temple, then maybe we will be able to re-construct Jesus.

All well and good, but how close will this bring us to the events of the first Easter? Not very. Reliance on empirical data will not disclose to us mythic truth. Put another way: If we had been present at the sepulcher in the wee hours of the morning on that first Sunday after Passover, and if we had tried to record the event on video tape, would we have captured the resurrection? I doubt it. The earliest Christians were not relating their stories in order to prove something to an unbelieving public. They were affirming a message about a new perspective on the universe.

The Greek word for “resurrection” is “anastasis.” (It is the same word from which the feminine name Anastasia is derived). Its range of meanings includes “to raise up,” “to awaken,” “to stand up.” Nowhere do these definitions necessarily imply the re-infusion of life into a corpse. Indeed, as the story that I read in our hearing suggests, the resurrection is related to the recognition and action of the disciples, not to the palpable presence of a dead body. The events in the forty-eight hours leading up to the first Easter were devastating. There was humiliation, misunderstanding, betrayal, fear, pain, cowardice, anger, intrigue, political expedience, destruction and death. Seldom has there been a greater concentration of de-humanizing passion in such a short period of time. And it was a passion directed against innocence. Certainly Jesus was innocent (or so the story goes). He did little or nothing to deserve crucifixion. But then neither had hundreds (perhaps, thousands) of others. They were simply pawns in the maintenance of political and religious order—those who had been forgotten or largely ignored and who could easily be sacrificed for the sake of the “greater good.” The irony of the story rests in the fact that Jesus “stood up” for these people. For those who had begun to despair for their lives and the lives of their loved ones, Jesus ignited a spark of hope. He reminded individuals that they had a dignity, a grace and a purpose that no political or religious power could take away. He impressed upon his disciples that while, at present, oppression and destruction reigned, they could form a community in which freedom and justice, love and peace were the foundational principles.

In the aftermath of the crucifixion the disciples began to recognize (perhaps slowly at first) the force of the master’s message. It made no difference whether one was young or old. It made no difference whether one was man or woman. It made no difference whether one was learned or ignorant. Freedom was the right of everyone. Justice was the right of every person. The giving and receiving of love was the right of the low-born as well as the high-born. Then comes the “aha” moment. The disciples suddenly realize: “Jesus is still ‘standing up.’” Despite the fact that a human being has been crucified and laid in a tomb, freedom still lives. Despite the fact that a stone has been rolled in front of a cave, love is still being manifested. Despite the fact that political and religious institutions attempt to demean individuals, dignity still thrives. And so the disciples commit themselves to continue this “standing up” so that human beings may be the beneficiaries of hope. As the poet says:

What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,

But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now.

In the din of contemporary life we rarely hear the echoes of hope. Indeed, we are more often confronted with the opposite—hopelessness. Think of our present national (and international) crisis—terrorism. We deplore the violent acts that nations and individuals inflict upon one another. Yet, we feel so helpless when still another building is destroyed, still another aircraft is blown up, still another suicide bomber takes his toll on himself and the innocent. And our predictable response to these acts is to somehow “strike back.” This seems to be the only weapon in our arsenal; yet we know that “striking back” is fruitless. It does not reverse the situation; it does not redress the wrong; it does not alleviate the hurt; it does not correct the error. It merely sucks us more deeply into the sinkhole of violence and convinces us that our world is hopeless.

Many individuals in our twenty-first century world feel trapped—caught in a prison of poverty or dependency or failure. Think of the man who stands at the intersection of I-75 and Bayshore Road, holding a sign which reads: “Will work for food.” Now I know that when we observe this, our cynicism kicks in (mine does) saying, “His intentions are otherwise. He only wants money in order to buy whiskey . . . or drugs . . . or to squander in some unseemly manner.” But, no matter what his intentions, his sign is an expression of hopelessness. Think of the sixteen-year-old girl who finds that she is pregnant and cannot bear to tell her parents. What should she do? Where should she turn? Is there a community of understanding and care that is “standing up” and from which she might derive comfort? Or is she destined to be one more “unsalvageable” human being, at the mercy of forces beyond her control? In so many instances--for the poor, for the homeless, for the gay or lesbian, for those in abusive relationships, for those whose job is alienating and boring—there seems to be no exit from the malaise which threatens to destroy them.

Culture’s glib answer to these de-humanizing situations is “free will.” If a person really wants to overcome his/her present circumstances, he/she can. After all, this is America. “Let freedom ring.” However, as Martin Luther reminded us, our wills are not always free; in fact, most of the time they are in bondage—held captive by forces that oppress and destroy—injustice, hatred, disease and death. Physical limitation impedes the ability of many to fulfill their dreams. Emotional trauma paralyzes the wills of others so that their lives are expressions of increasing despair, sometimes leading to suicide. Spiritual confusion confronts still others and produces a skepticism that annihilates the focus of the will. The result of this “weakness of the will” is a loss of hope—a feeling that “no matter what one does, it is not going to make a difference.” It is little comfort in our present dilemma to remind ourselves that previous generations—particularly the first century of our common era—have experienced the same loss of hope. Historical parallels do little to allay contemporary fears. After reading the stories of ages past our hopelessness is still with us.

But there is hope. As the poet states:

Hope springs Eternal in the human breast;

Man never Is, but always To be blest.

Even the skeptic, David Hume, concludes that humans must base their practical life on hope. Hume, as a strict empiricist notes that just because we observed the sun rise this morning, there is no reason for us to conclude that it will do so tomorrow. We hope that it will, but we have no guarantee. Just because our cars started when we left our home today, there is no reason for us to believe that they will start after the service. We hope that they will, but we have no assurance. Just because we teach our children the values and principles we believe to be right is not a sufficient basis for us to think they will follow them. We hope that they will. And just because we subscribe to and articulate seven principles which call for an interdependent community that seeks good will, does not automatically make it so. We hope that it will.

Easter is a celebration of hope. There is hope. As the Jesus story begins, a baby is born. What greater symbol of hope is there than this? As the Jesus story concludes, the tomb is empty. Death cannot confine or annihilate the possibilities and dreams which define our humanity. These “stand up” and “stand out” even in the face of great odds. In the middle of the story there are lepers, tax collectors, prostitutes, privileged and poor, young and old, Greek and Jew, whose despair is transmuted into hope. And there is an added bonus. The hope that is proclaimed is not merely a dim possibility. It is a present reality. Hope is here, now in the very midst of the human community.

But skepticism still reigns in our western world. Our critical mind eclipses our thirsting soul. We have acquired increasing amounts of knowledge; but our knowledge has been insufficient to bring an end to our most menacing problems—disease, devastation and death. So, why should we hope? Are not our hopes doomed to failure? Are not our dreams destined to remain unfulfilled? Are we not like Sisyphus, caught in the endless effort of rolling a rock up a hill, only to have it roll down again? It would certainly seem that this is our plight.

Yet, we humans are a curious paradox. We seem to hope—even in the face of hopelessness. And therein lies our salvation. To hope, even against all the odds, is to give justification and worth to our own existence; and to hope against hope is to seize the opportunity to participate in the redemption of the whole of creation. We may not find the cure for cancer in our lifetime; but in our effort to do so we may bring a little more light and little more life to those who are suffering. We may not eliminate global warming in the foreseeable future; but in our care for the earth we may expand the boundaries of existence for all.

Andy Dufresne, a character in the movie The Shawshank Redemption, has been in prison for nineteen years of his life. He is accused of allegedly murdering his wife and her lover. However, we discover, in the course of the story, that Andy is innocent, convicted only by circumstantial evidence. Andy knows that he is innocent; his fellow inmates gradually learn of his innocence; and finally, the warden—the symbol of justice and punishment—discovers his innocence. Yet these forces in Andy’s world cannot or will not set him free. The warden, particularly, does not want Andy released because Andy knows too much about prison life. He knows that the warden is running a scam, raking off money from the prison appropriations and lining his own pockets. So Andy is at the mercy of forces that conspire to destroy him.

In one scene Andy is musing over his situation with Red, an inmate who has become his best friend. He asks Red whether he thinks he (Red) will ever get out. Red reflects for a moment and then says “yes” when he will be of no more use to himself or anyone else. Andy then responds by saying: “Then I guess it comes down to a choice—get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’.” In the next few days Andy effects an escape and flees to Mexico. We learn that he has been planning this escape for years and has only waited for the right time to carry it out. In a letter that he writes to Red, now newly paroled, he makes the following observation: “Remember, Red . . . hope is a good thing . . . maybe the best of things . . . and no good thing ever dies.” This the proclamation of the Jesus story; this is the proclamation of Easter Sunday. No good thing ever dies.

AMEN