A couple of days ago, I preached my first full-fledged sermon! It was, to an extent, inspired by reflections on discomfort and fear, though my affirming classmates and professor made sure those 13 minutes induced as little anxiety as possible. Watching the tape afterwards (yes, they filmed me)...now that was an uncomfortable experience! Still, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the process of careful analysis, writing, and delivery. I could maybe get used to doing this thing more often, but I don't think I'll commit to any solo pastor positions just yet.
Luke 23: 50-56
Now there was a good and righteous
man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their
plan and action. He came from the
Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of
God. This man went to Pilate and
asked for the body of Jesus. Then
he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb
where no one had ever been laid.
It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with him from
Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned, and prepared spices
and ointments. On the Sabbath they
rested according to the commandment.
I wonder what it
would have been like to be standing in Pilate’s court when Joseph of Arimathea
walked in. We hear that Joseph
goes directly to Pilate and asks for
the body of Jesus, but I imagine that his head is also spinning as he processes
the events, which have culminated in his friend’s brutal death. It all happened so quickly. Judas betrays Jesus; Peter denies him;
Pilate persecutes him; the crowd condemns him; and Jesus hangs on the
cross. Joseph must be shocked, but
he goes to Pilate all the same. He
reveals himself as a disciple of Jesus, despite his respected position on the
very same priestly council that had spat on
Jesus only days earlier. The
process is quick. All has turned
to darkness. Jesus is dead. His body needs attention. His disciples are grieving.
Wouldn’t it be easier to just bury their
pain along with his body and move on?
Several
weeks ago, I sat with dozens of others in a room filled with deep darkness. We had come—parents and children,
students and retirees, believers and seekers—all of us curious about science,
hoping to learn something about the stars from a planetarium open house at our
neighboring Agnes Scott College.
As we sank into our seats, a professor’s voice issued gentle reminders
from the back of the room. “I’m
about to simulate today’s sunset,” he said, “In a moment, it will be very
dark. Please don’t spoil it. Leave your cell phones in your
pockets. Prepare to see the
stars.” All around me, I could
hear the excited whispers of those who reclined in chairs facing upwards. Then, a young mother issued an
insistent “Shhhhh!!!” from a seat on my left, and all fell silent as the sun’s
bright glow descended behind the horizon.
I squeezed my eyes tightly, but I could not see my hands, even inches
from my face. And it got darker
and darker. And I waited...and
waited…and waited some more…Where was the show? Where were the stars?
Hadn’t I come there to be enlightened?! Finally, nearly four simulated hours after our sunset, a few
tiny lights emerged. First, the
brightest ones: Venus and Jupiter.
Moments later, the intricate swoop of Orion’s belt and the
wide-stretching net of the Milky Way.
Free from the light pollution of the towering Atlanta skyline and our
dozens of half-lit iPhone screens, every star beamed as if it were a solo
performer. Against the silky
backdrop of a pitch-black sky, the stars, which had in fact been there all along,
seemed even more brilliant than the bright-shining sun.
If we could forget about the darkness,
wouldn’t there be light? Or was it
only through those prolonged twilight hours that we could admire the
ever-present stars?
In the darkness
that followed Jesus’ death, Joseph of Arimathea may have been asking the same
questions. He was, after all,
“waiting expectantly” for the kingdom
of God, not for the slow process of grief that preceded it. He is ready for a miracle, for a sign,
for some glimpse of hope. Though
he doesn’t yet realize it, he is eager for the resurrection. But as he receives Jesus’ body from
Pilate, Joseph finds himself in the “not-yet” period of difficult, uncertain
waiting. “It was the day of
Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning.” The sun has set, and the stars aren’t yet visible. The world is submerged in
darkness. In between the action of
a somber Good Friday and a joyful Easter Sunday comes a time of careful labor
and mandatory rest. Joseph and the
other followers must wait, and the waiting is uncomfortable, even gruesome. For the time being, they can’t hasten
the bright morning light, but must dwell in the pitch-black backdrop of Christ
crucified and the dim reality of his lifeless human form.
If we could just forget about this
difficult, uncertain darkness, wouldn’t there be light? Why wait on the body of a man who is
already dead?
It was the day of
Preparation, and Joseph takes the body down with tender care. He wraps it in a linen cloth, and lays
it in the very tomb that he had prepared to use himself. In his grief, he is not left to do all
of this alone, but is accompanied by the women, Mary of Magdalene and Mary, the
mother of Jesus. Haven’t they all
suffered enough for one day?
Didn’t they shed enough tears at the foot of the cross? Wouldn’t
it be easier for them to just forget about the darkness and move on towards the
light? Still, they follow
Joseph to see the tomb and how Jesus’ body is laid there. They witness the death alongside
him. They see the body in broad
daylight, but they do not run from death’s shadowy night. They neither deny its presence nor
attempt to offer a simple remedy for the pain it has caused. They return to it, sit with it, and
anoint it with spices and ointments.
They anoint it with spices not as a quick-fix medicinal remedy, but as a
way of recognizing the death in their midst, of honoring a life that has set
with the sun on the eve of the Sabbath.
They wait, and they prepare.
Christ is dead, but not yet
risen. The sun has set, but the
stars are not yet visible. Their hope is vaguely present, but not yet realized.
Sometimes, we find
ourselves in these “not yet” spaces, where we must attend to the darkness
before we can receive the new life that follows. We call such spaces liminal,
likening them to thresholds, doorways through which we pass between one way of
being and another. Liminal spaces
are often uncomfortable. They are
vulnerable and uncertain. Things
are not as we knew them, nor do we know what they will become. The sun has set. The room is dark. The stars have yet to appear. As seminarians, perhaps we especially
dwell in these spaces, as we prepare to position ourselves between the sacred
and the common, the just and the merciful, the broken and the whole. We dwell in these “not yet”
spaces.
Ash Wednesday
Community Day at CTS. We gathered
to reflect on our call to live together as Christ’s Beloved Community. We unpacked the pain and privilege that
have built walls where we’ve hoped for bridges and plunged us into darkness
where we have longed for the sun’s easy warmth. In the middle of an action-packed semester, when our eyes
were already fixed on the potential to ace our midterms, find the perfect
summer opportunity, and get to work sharing the Good News, we paused for a time
of careful labor and mandatory rest.
It wasn’t easy. Though we
have grown in envisioning a future for this beloved community, we are not yet
there. But we wait, and we hope
because we are called to dwell in these “not yet spaces.”
We are called to see how the body is laid in the
tomb, to return to it, and to anoint it with spices and ointments because this is the day of Preparation. This is
the time when we wait expectantly for
the kingdom of God because we may have known death, and we may feel as though
we dwell in darkness, but even the darkness is not dark to you, O God; the
night is as bright as the day! The
stars are still present! The sun
will soon rise! In faith, we
rejoice, for we hold the assurance that just barely eluded Joseph on the eve of
the Sabbath—the stone has been rolled away! Easter morning is here! Jesus is on the loose—in the wide-stretching world, on the
streets of Atlanta, in our homes and our hearts, and indeed, on this very seminary campus, where we
are becoming his Beloved Community!
Why should we forget about the darkness,
when it is as light to you, O God?
Do you not dwell with us, even in our dimmest nights?
As we stand in the
doorway of our seminary education, we may not sense where we are going, but we
hope, and we wait, and with Jesus on the loose, we will surely never be the
same. Let us continue to lean into
our uncertainties, to walk with one another through the twilight, and to trust
in the light and life of the one who died, and was buried, and rose, and will
come again. Amen.
