Sermon for April 21, 2019 | Easter Sunday

Then they Remembered

April 21, 2019 | Easter Sunday

Preached by Pastor Matt Braddock

At the crack of dawn on Sunday, the women came to the tomb carrying the burial spices they had prepared. They found the entrance stone rolled back from the tomb, so they walked in. But once inside, they couldn’t find the body of the Master Jesus. They were puzzled, wondering what to make of this. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, two men, light cascading over them, stood there. The women were awestruck and bowed down in worship. The men said, “Why are you looking for the Living One in a cemetery? He is not here, but raised up. Remember how he told you when you were still back in Galilee that he had to be handed over to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days rise up?” Then they remembered Jesus’ words. Luke 24:1-8

Easter begins with remembering. Or maybe Easter begins with forgetting. I’m glad, because I have been forgetful lately. I forget what I was going to say. I forget why I walked into a room. I forget important family events. Details are slipping my mind lately.

If you could be granted a superpower of memory, would you choose to remember every day of your life? Would you want the kind of mind that could recall details on command? I can’t believe how quickly time has gone by in my own life. I think I’ve been thinking about loved ones I’ve lost and find it inconceivable how long it’s been since they died. My cousin reminded me about our grandfather the other day. James Hudson was a mysterious man to me. He never said too much, but when he did speak, we listened. He nicknamed all his grandchildren, and he called me Big Ike. I’ll never forget the time he caught my cousin and me on the roof of his barn. When we finally came down, he was ready for us. He said, “Big Ike, if I ever catch you up there again, I gonna kick and blister your behind.” I believed him. His care could be ferocious. He was also a stubborn man. Every carpet and blanket in his house had cigarette burns, due to his bad habit of falling asleep while smoking in bed. Mostly, I remember him sitting at the head of the dinner table for hours, listening to the chatter and laughter of his family, smoking cartons of cigarettes (True Blues), drinking coffee with two saccharine tablets, eating Velveeta and smoked sausage, and looking impassive.

I’m sure there’s more to remember, but my recollections of him are fading. Sometimes I wish I had a better memory — to know that the past is not gone, that the people are not gone.

I read a fascinating story about a woman who cannot forget anything about her life. She remembers every single detail since she was fourteen years old. Give her a date, and she can tell you the day of the week it was and what she did. Give her a historical event in her lifetime and she’ll tell you what she was wearing and what the weather was. She describes her life as a split screen TV with the present running on one side and the past on the other. In an interview she said, “Some memories are good and give me a warm, safe feeling. But I also recall every bad decision, insult, and excruciating embarrassment. Over the years it has eaten me up. It has kind of paralyzed me.” I don’t know if I want that superpower anymore.

Speaking of memories, last week, I reached out to an UCC acquaintance who is not a member of the Connecticut State Assembly. Back in the day, she was the co-director of a UCC Summer camp where I volunteered. I congratulated her on the new position, and after some small talk she wrote, “I'll always remember you crossing camp in a Cher wig and long skirt.” I did not remember that. It sounds like something I’d do, but I did not remember.

I wondered how many people hold memories of me that I don’t recall. So, I went to Facebook and typed, “Would you share a memory you have of me? I'm doing a project on remembering, and I'm curious about a story you remember about me, especially from childhood, high school, and college years (but anyone can share). Thanks!” Knowing full well the risks, I hit send, and waited for the responses.

Here is what people remember: I have a habit of singing unsuitably loud at others in public places. People remember me wearing random costumes – because you now know how much I like to dress up. Sometimes the loud singing and dress up go together. People remember getting talked into half-baked exploits by me. I tend to be kind and helpful. A bit o Sometimes funny. Sometimes brash.

Some stories I had totally forgotten – events that were significant to others but had faded from my view. Here were the memories I was most interested in. One of my favorites came from Rita, a community friend in Connecticut who was known to enjoy a glass of wine or two. In one of my many attempts to lose weight, I talked her into doing Weight Watchers with me. Back then, you would get a daily allotment of points for all the food you were going to eat. Every food had a point value. Anything consumed, like a glass of wine, would get subtracted from our daily total. Rita wrote, “You and I sat together at a Weight Watchers meeting. Later that day, I had a small fire in my kitchen. I was pretty shook up watching all those firefighters going inside. As I stood outside in the middle of all the fire trucks and their flashing lights, I looked up the street and saw you get out of your car and come rushing toward me. You were the minister for the firefighters in town and had gotten the call about the fire. You gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t worry. Red wine is only two points!’”

This is all to say, I’ve been thinking a lot about memories, because Easter begins with remembering. Or maybe Easter begins with forgetting. Think of the women going to the empty tomb to prepare the body of Jesus for final burial. They have a thousand reasons to be jaded, exhausted, beat down, and burned out. They have every reason to be stuck in the stupor of pessimism. They are so wrapped up in grief, they don’t recall what Jesus said – that he would suffer, and die, and be raised up on the third day.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus predicts his death three times. He tells his 12 disciples exactly what will happen to him. Each time, Jesus’s closest followers, the men who follow him day in and day out, the men who learned from his teachings and witnessed miracles, the men don’t get it. They cannot understand, and they are too afraid to ask for an explanation.

Fast forward to the empty tomb. Two men appear, but they are not like the other men we’ve met. They repeat what Jesus said earlier in the Gospel, “He is not here. Remember how he told you when you were still back in Galilee that he had to be handed over to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days rise up?” Do you know what different this time? This time … this time! … the reminder is not to the men. The reminder is given to the women. Then they remember. Then the miracle of Easter happens. Easter begins with remembering.

The story of the resurrection of Jesus is the core recollection of Christianity. It reminds us of God’s power over death. It reminds us of the empire’s loosening grip over life. It’s a story that demands all perspectives be heard: a diverse chorus of voices all singing a common song. The story and the song begin with women remembering.

Remembering is a political act. Communities make different decisions about what we remember, about how we tell the stories of the past. One group’s story of triumph may be another’s story of trauma. One’s joy may be another’s pain. It changes based on where we stand — whether we have power or fight for power; whether we are thriving or surviving; fighting, fleeing, or resisting.

Let’s go back to my grandfather. I have another memory of him I didn’t tell you about. When he died of a sudden heart attack from his decades-long diet of Velveeta, smoked sausages and cigarettes, he also left my grandmother $5 million in debt. Secrets came to light about businesses gone bad, failed investments, and hidden affairs. The banks started to close in, wanting their money. Our devastation and trauma filtered every memory we had of grandpa. We could not hide our confusion and fear. The story of my grandfather’s memory was dominated by our anger and disappointment. We were so wrapped up in grief, we forgot the good things he did. People do this all the time in all parts of life. It especially happens in communities. Those in charge try to shape the story.

Maybe you’ve heard it said that history is written by the winners. Domination requires deliberate mis-remembering. Certain details get celebrated and others get buried. Wins become larger than they truly were and losses to become minor setbacks. Those who control the story decide what to keep alive and what to lay to rest; what to dwell on and what to let go of; where to focus and when to block things out.

In our political lives, domination desires the oppressed to forget. If domination prospers on forgetting, then memory is form of resistance. Memory challenges the forces that romanticize the past or believe that progress alone unlocks a more just future. The corrupt commanders, the proud plunderers, the terrible tyrants, and the immoral manipulators of the world take comfort in the knowing that people easily forget their misdeeds. In these times of impunity and injustice, remembering is be an act of resistance.

History is written by the winners. History is also told by survivors. On that first Easter morning, it’s the women who resist and remember. It’s the women who arrive to make sense of the carnage of Good Friday. Cleaning and preparing a corpse was the work of women who came to re-member a body torn in a grisly public act of torment, a body killed as a symbol of the Empire’s intention to destroy any thought of resistance. Simply showing up at the tomb mark the women as followers of someone tortured and killed by the state -- never a safe move! It’s women who are willing to risk the danger of exposure. It’s women who will not allow the empire to establish the “official” state memory of the event of Jesus’s death.

When they arrive at the tomb and nothing is as they expect it to be. Before the women have any time to process the trauma of having their loved one’s body stolen, they receive a reminder of the very words Jesus told the men over and over again. The women get it. This time, they are healed of their trauma. This time, they become the first people to share a new memory -- not Rome’s story of domination … not the men’s story of failure … it’s a new story of life, and love … a story of new beginnings and new growth. It’s a story we remember today: We remember that God’s love can never be entombed. We remember how we see love overcome hatred. We remember how good can overshadow evil. We remember how courage can take the place of fear.

We have a thousand reasons to be jaded, exhausted, beat down, and burned out. We have every reason to be stuck in the stupor of pessimism. We can get so wrapped up in grief, we forget what Jesus said. But Easter won’t die. In an empire so zealously committed to crucifixion, God relentlessly reminds us how in the ravages of trauma and the hierarchies of power, God’s voice refuses to be silenced. Amid the hatred and fear that puts innocent people in the grave, God’s story refuses to yield to the domination of death. Easter begins with forgetting. Or is it remembering? In a diverse chorus of voices, all in common song, we remember this impossible mystery: Jesus is risen. Remember?

Sources:

https://www.them. us/story/deray-mckesson-on-the-other-side-of-freedom

https://www.centralsynagogue. org/worship/sermons/detail/memory-the-importance-of-forgetting-yom-kippur-5776

https://politicaltheology. com/memory-and-the-risen-christ-luke-241-12/

Sermon for April 13, 2019

The Beatitudes and the Politics of Peacemaking

 “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Matthew 5:9-12 (NRSV)

How do you feel about the passing of the peace during worship? We do it here sometimes – it’s that point in the service where I ask you to share signs of peace with your neighbor, and then we all square dance around the sanctuary saying, “Peace be with you.” Some people make the rounds. Others shake a hand or two, get a little uncomfortable and quickly sit down. I’ve known people for whom it’s an unconscionable disruption. For those of you who like to come here, have some quiet space, and frankly, not have to talk to others, the passing of the peace can drive you crazy, what with all the people leaping over pews, joking and laughing, talking to each other, and sharing germs, when we need to be sitting in our places.

On my grumpy days, I’m probably one of those people. But I admit, sometimes we need to pass the peace. It really doesn’t hurt anybody. Passing signs of peace is a symbolic reminder of who we are and what we are about. We are a just peace church with a just peace covenant, after all. One might think that making peace would start here, among us.

Being a peacemaker can be highly dangerous. It can also be quite costly. When Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” he was referring to persons who are ready to work for an end to hostility. Sometimes, this verse is misread, however, so that the term “peace lover” is read in the place of “peace maker.” The world is filled with peace lovers, but there is a severe shortage of peace makers.

Sometimes, too, we get peace makers confused with peace talkers. But just talking about it will not accomplish anything. The world needs “peacemakers.” The real work of making peace, of speaking for those who have no voice, of seeking to effect real reconciliation between families or governments, comes at a tremendous price.

On Palm Sunday, I like to think about the cost of peacemaking. On Palm Sunday, peacemaking begins with a parade entering the city of Jerusalem, the City of Peace. People cheer as the Ruler rides into the City majestically from the West. Who is leading this parade? None other than Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, riding in an impressive and lavish procession designed to astonish people with a visual display of imperial power: cavalry on horses, foot soldiers, leather armor, helmets, weapons, banners, golden eagles mounted on poles, sun glinting on metal and gold.

Another parade begins at the same time as Pilate’s. From the other side of Jerusalem, the City of Peace, from the East, Jesus rides a borrowed donkey to the city gate from the Mount of Olives. Jesus produces a fringe festival to Pilate’s pomp; a counter-demonstration. Jesus and his parade goers might be able to hear the procession in the West; the sounds of marching feet, beating of drums, creaking of leather and cracking whips, which drown out all other sound from the markets and streets. From the East, if we draw close enough, we might hear a small band of marginalized citizens singing, “Hosanna! Save Us! Blessed is the one who comes!” as they throw palms on the road and Jesus rides into town. It’s a procession staged as satire.

All parades use symbols. The Silver Spring Thanksgiving Parade has every civic organization in the county marching down the street, complete with flags, scouts and soccer teams, dance troupes, armored police enforcement trucks, and street venders overcharging for balloons. When I lived in Western New York, the parades were all fire trucks and farm equipment … and street venders overcharging for balloons — perfect for a small agriculturally-based village. Pilate’s parade has banners, armor, weapons, and gold eagles mounted on standards (no balloons) — perfect symbolism for the power, authority, and wealth of the Roman Empire. He rides to make sure that no trouble breaks out on this holiday when religious pilgrims swell the city to remember the story of their liberation from another empire in Egypt. He rides to remind rioters and revolutionaries that they dare not challenge or defy the power of Rome.

In the East, a few people stop, point, and ask, “Who is that?” And someone says, “It’s Jesus, whom they call a prophet. He comes from up north in Nazareth in the region of Galilee.” They shake some palm branches and throw them on the ground as Jesus rides to suffer at the hands of the worst that Rome represents.

If you were there on the streets of Jerusalem, which parade would you be drawn to?

Pilate’s parade is not mentioned in any of the scriptures, but his spectacle likely forms the background of Jesus’ Palm Sunday parade. Jesus’ parade makes more sense when we know that Pilate had another parade going at the same time. Pilate’s parade has huge appeal. It’s noisy. It’s big. It stands for all the things that citizens value in society. It has power and strength, authority and riches. It’s a brawny and dominant symbol of the Empire’s potency. Pilate’s parade offers control. Leadership. Security. It leaves us with our mouths gaping wide. Jesus’ parade is clearly a caricature of Pilate’s parade. Jesus’ parade is laughable. It’s ridiculous. I mean … a grand leader decked in gold on horseback versus a peasant riding a borrowed donkey? Jesus’ parade wants to make us wake up, to pay attention, to laugh at the Empire’s overreach, to think about who really oversees the land of Israel and the nations of the world.

Much in my life draws me to Pilate’s parade. Big and powerful things have allure. I want to be around people who can make me feel influential. Many of us are drawn to that which makes us feel important and admired in the hopes that it might rub off on us. But something keeps calling me back to Jesus’ parade. The past couple of weeks I have been puzzling over what it is. Why do I feel so anxious when Pilate’s parade goes by? Pilate’s parade may attract us. It may inspire feelings of importance and status. But there’s a cost. We must give up something to be in Pilate’s parade.

There was a parade in Silver Spring this week. Right down Colesville Road. Here’s what happened: those in authority over the police in Montgomery County wrote a memo letting themselves off the hook for shooting and killing Robert White last June. Mr. White was an unarmed Black man, probably suffering the anxiety of a mental health crisis. He became a suspect because he was wearing a ripped jacket, had his hands in his pockets, and was trying to get away from an officer who was profiling him. Instead of de-escalating the conflict, the officer did the opposite. His aggressiveness inflamed Mr. White. It put him on the attack. That’s what got him killed. Well … that, and a system that allows police to shoot unarmed Black men and women with little, if any, legal consequence. An internal affairs investigation said the officer was justified in the use of deadly force against Robert White. We held a rally here at CCC last Sunday. Community members, and public officials, and people of faith came here to pray, to ask for answers, and to call our leaders to greater transparency and accountability. One word that keeps getting kicked around is the term “justified.” The police say the killing was justified. The community wants more justification, because the police memo doesn’t really give a convincing reason. That word, justified, is interesting. Delegate Wilkins of the MD State Assembly was here, and she talked about how she learned in church that the word justified means, “just as if it never happened.” That’s the effect of the police memo. It erases their responsibility. They want us to believe that certain things didn’t happen. Just forget about it. Let’s move on.

It’s the message of Pontius Pilate’s Parade all over again. Pilate wants our strength, but only if we give up our need. Pilate wants our obedient devotion, but only if we give up our longing to understand our doubts. Pilate wants fear and admiration, but only if we are willing to sacrifice our self-determination. Pilate’s parade offers us status, but we have to be willing to march in time with Pilate’s relentless, marching beat to earn it. We must become who Pilate wants us to be.

Think again about the word “justification.” I think about the word justification as a right relationship. It has to do with peacemaking. It means we are at peace in our relationships with each other, and with God. Well, some in our community are not at peace about the killing of Robert White. People are angry. You know what they did? After the press conference, some people formed a parade. They marched from this church to Mr. White’s neighborhood. They blocked Colesville Road and walked down to Three Oaks, chanting, drumming, marching, and offering a symbolic public display of what it means to resist when powerful people want us to forget and move on. This was a Jesus parade. A Palm Sunday parade. Palm Sunday parades invite us to find freedom by doing some of the most counter-intuitive actions, like:

… giving up the self-superiority that fools us into thinking we are better than others,

… giving up fear-driven control tactics that make us grasp for counterfeit security,

… giving up the expectation that God promises prosperity,

… giving up on hopelessness that keeps us entombed in life’s shadows,

… giving up on acclaim that tempts us to lulls us into pretentious pomposity.

We are helping host another parade of sorts on April 29. We are mobilizing the community to show up at the check in for Coach Fofo in Baltimore as he checks into his ICE appointment and risks detainment and deportation. Our rally will be a chance to stand with a pillar and leader of our community, and to stand against the despicable family separation policies that the presidential administration is now doubling down on. I’ve mentioned Fofo in the past and written emails about it. To learn more of the back-story, check out our posts on our Webpage or on Facebook. There will be more to come. If you want to help organize our turnout, please come tomorrow night at 7 for deportation accompaniment training. Even if you can’t come on April 29, we need help to turn out a mass demonstration on short notice.

Rallies, demonstrations, marches … these parades … they are Jesus parades. They invite us to hold all parts of our life together. The bliss and the sorrow. The promise and the pain. Like Jesus, we join in a pageant that proclaims a power that comes from following God, not pomp and privilege.

Can we do it? Can we ride with Jesus to the Temple where he will topple the money changers’ tables? Can we ride with him to ICE offices where voices of faith will join in the public square to demand compassionate justice? Can we follow the steps of Jesus who leads to examine and confront corruption, consumption, and consumerism? Can we give up some comfort so that we can get back to our true humanity?

Here is Jesus, riding to on Good Friday and the cross. In a world that avoids suffering and denies death, here is Jesus riding on to embrace life’s pain. Can we give up and our fears and ourselves to face pain and suffering?

There were two processions on Palm Sunday. And the people had to decide in which one they would participate. It’s a decision we all must make. Which world order will we help to bring forth: The domination of empire that uses violence and coercion, or the steps of the Peacemaker who leads us to wholeness? Those who take advantage of others to maintain control and order, or the One who heals and blesses those who are forgotten? Economic and political systems that benefit a few at the cost of the masses, or a non-coercive, non-hierarchical public square where all each person is responsible for shaping the common good? Can we help bring forth a world that embraces each life, that values the power of community in relationship, that trusts in the authority of love and the possibility of peace— the one where we can be truly free. Which procession will we participate in?