We are in the Easter season, the oldest and grandest of all Christian festivals. The earliest Easter celebrations lasted for a full fifty days from Easter Sunday until Pentecost, which this year is not until May 27. So Easter is far from over. As a reminder of that, we conclude worship today with Jester Hairston's arrangement of that great Easter spiritual, "Angels Rolled de Stone Away." We began our music today as Easter people raising our voices and declaring, "Fear of death no more can stop us from our pressing here below. Christ our Lord has empowered us to triumph over every foe." But is that true?
This week the Easter season was shattered by death when a young man went on a killing rampage at Virginia Tech. Cho Seung-Hui's mental illness, the violence that saturates our culture, and the easy availability of guns all turned out to be a toxic and deadly combination. As I thought about how this event struck deep into our national psyche, I could not help but think of the situation in Iraq where as many die violent deaths every day, and sometimes even more than killed at Virginia Tech. It is unimaginable what it is like to have a trauma like this day after day.
This past Monday was Holocaust Remembrance Day. Many of the observances around the world such as the one at the National Holocaust Museum included remembering the Darfur region of Sudan. Over the last years, the violent ethnic cleansing has resulted in some 400,000 deaths and over 2.5 million people driven from their homes. Of course, I could go on with examples that make us question what it means to gather and sing "Fear of death no more can stop us from our pressing here below. Christ our Lord has empowered us to triumph over every foe."
The last time I preached was on Easter Sunday, which was to a much fuller sanctuary, but I won't take that personally. In my sermon that day, I proposed that the opposite of faith might not be disbelief, but fear. My text was from the gospel of John, which has a number of accounts of resurrection appearances by Jesus and also declares, "Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book." (20:30) Indeed, John ends his gospel by saying, "But there were are many other things that Jesus did; if everyone of them were written down, I suppose the world itself could not contain the books that would be written."(21:24).
But the gospel of Mark concludes in a dramatically different way. In the last scene, three women enter Jesus' tomb and encounter a young man dressed in a white robe who says to them, "Do not be alarmed, you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you." (Mark 16: 6-7) When they heard this good news, they did not jump up and down in joy, they did not sing the Hallelujah chorus. Mark says, "So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." (Mark 16:8)
And that is the ending of Mark's Gospel. Wait a minute! That's it? If the Gospel of Mark were made into a movie, this would be quite unsatisfactory. It ends way too abruptly. Too much is unresolved. We don't even see Jesus alive again. In fact, in the original Greek, the last sentence ends with a conjunction as in mid-sentence. Some early readers of Mark's gospel couldn't stand this inconclusive ending, and two alternative endings were added later to the original manuscripts. It's like those movies where the hero dies in the end in the theatrical version but you can get them on DVD offering an alternate ending where the hero lives happily ever after. But in Mark's original director's cut, there is not a single resurrection story. The last words are, "they said nothing, for they were afraid."
Patrick Wilson has said of Mark's ending, "He refuses to tie the loose ends of the gospel into a tidy bow of fleeting consolations. The final verses are ambiguous: a promise greeted by fear; a pledge that we will 'see him' swamped by our own uncertainty and dread. What Mark's ending lacks in romance it makes up for in shear realism. Isn't this the world we live in? No enchanted world of thinly fabricated happily-ever-afters, but a world in which we hold tightly to the promise and fearfully tread our way through a tangle of doubts and amazements." (Christian Century, April 4, 1994)
I am so glad we have four gospels. I need all those stories form Luke and Mathew and John about Jesus appearing to the disciples. I love the stories of the folks meeting Jesus as a stranger on the road to Emmaus and not recognizing him until they invite him into their home. I am always touched by that moment when Mary mistakes Jesus for a gardener until he gently calls her name and she recognizes his voice. And then there are the depressed disciples out fishing all night trying to forget their troubles when they can hardly believe their eyes, "Is that really Jesus alive and well and cooking up breakfast on the beach!" There is playfulness in these resurrection stories, as if Jesus is laughing at death for thinking it has the final word.
I thank God we all have days like that. Yesterday was one for me. The weather was absolutely glorious when I arrived for the Oakhurst Earth Day parade. I immediately began running into Oakhurst folks and getting hugs from Kate Shelledy and others. I saw Christy Hall out with Ellie out on one of her first adventures and Dana Tottenham with her baby Lyndon, two new miracles in our Oakhurst mix. The Earth Day parade began with the "Seed and Feed Abominable Marching Band" bringing music and laughter. Betty Thompson helped led the way with wonderful puppets on her chair that she had meticulously made and painted. Ray Brown and the men in the Oakhurst recovery program came along with their heads inside these great big fish and yellow jacket puppets they had made themselves, a sign of the way their lives are being resurrected from the grave of addiction. There were hundreds of children and adults with puppets of all sizes and imaginations, marching to the Oakhurst Community Garden, itself a sign of resurrection. Its roots began in 1996, when children leaving Oakhurst Elementary School frequently cut through Ms. Louise Jackson's yard and trampled her beloved garden. Instead of involving the police, Mrs. Jackson partnered with a group of neighbors to invite the children to become caretakers of the garden. Working together, they restored Ms. Jackson's garden and added a beautiful, hand-painted fence. The children watched with delight and amazement as their plantings took root and flourished, and something ordinary turned into something special—a process they had never noticed or understood before. Faster than kudzu, word spread about how much fun it was to dig and plant, and suddenly, more children were lining up to work in Ms. Jackson's garden. The following year, a nearby, undeveloped half-acre lot became available and some neighbors acquired it ahead of the developers, and the Oakhurst Community Garden Project was born. (www.oakhurstgarden.org) Sally Wylde, who will join Oakhurst next Sunday, has been in the middle of it all the way, as co-founder ten years ago and the driving force behind yesterday's parade. Such a glorious day celebrating life and the good earth and people of all ages vowing to take care of it was a time of resurrection.
We can all tell stories where we have experienced times of resurrection. If everyone's resurrection stories and ours were written down, I suppose the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. And you know what is truly amazing. Some of those stories come from Darfur and Iraq where life is sometimes affirmed even in the midst of death. As in Blacksburg, Virginia, where Professor Liviu Librescu, who had survived the Holocaust and Communist Romania, saved the lives of several students by barricading his classroom door before he was gunned down. The day he died was also Holocaust Remembrance Day.
After my Easter sermon on faith and fear, Carol Burgess sent me this quote from Rob Eller-Isaacs, which serves as a fitting benediction today: "Jesus did not live and die that we might all bow down and worship him. He lived and died so that, by his example, we might learn to live and die for love. The story begins when God puts on flesh and comes to walk among us. It ends, or perhaps it just begins again, when God's spirit is uncaged by death, when the one who walked among us dies an individual and is born again as a community. It's not so hard to understand. Easter happens every day. Easter happens each time those who mourn rise up again to honor those they've lost by loving life more dearly. Easter happens every time we stand in solidarity with those who've lost all hope and say, "Hold on, we're at your side." And Easter happens every time, in spite of woe and death, in spite of the multitude of ways we've turned away, in spite of our failures and denials, we say yes to life."
Affirming life in the face of death. As I began working on this service and sermon, the Spirit clearly told me that one among us might have something to say about this. And so I am grateful to John Shippee for his willingness to share his testimony today.
In earlier September, we were having a marvelous three-day party in Switzerland. My Cousin Elizabeth was 100 years old. I got to be there with my mother who has been one of her best friends for decades.
It was one of the best times of my life.
On Monday October 30, I was on an operating table in Atlanta, Georgia having a malignant tumor scooped out of my brain.
My life changed radically on Friday, October 13 when an optometrist discovered that I had lost right side peripheral vision.
One week after that I was pretty conclusively diagnosed with a rapidly growing glioblastoma multiforma stage 4, in the left occipital lobe of my brain. It was about the size of a medium orange and kidney-shaped.
Half of those with such tumors die within a year. One to three per cent survive five years or more.
I had just been told that I would probably die within the year.
Scary, huh?
Having the diagnosis, dire as it was, was a relief. At least we knew something.
But, Like Alice I had gone through the looking glass and entered a new world from which there is no return—the world of those who are radically, unconditionally and daily confronted with their own mortality.
Like Paul, I could only see through the glass darkly.
I had (and have) no clear idea whether I will continue to live—and live well—for seconds days, months or years—or how that life will be in terms of pain, inconvenience, restrictions or the use of my faculties, talents and skills.
Nevertheless, you do what you can. Last October, like Jesus' friends when the stone was rolled away, I had a decision to make. The disciples had a decision to make.
Jesus was gone.
So, in all probability, was most of the rest of my life.
Do I give in to the fear and possible depression (been there, done that)—or to make the most of the experience—for myself, for others and possibly for God?
Lying in bed, involved in a "near" near death experience—my brain was severely swollen from a combination of the tumor and excess cerebro – spinal fluid – I decided to go for it, have as many good conversations as I could with people who understand this sort of thing and record as much as I could of the experience—hence the small camera you've seen me carrying around, a gift from my stepson Stephen and from Margaret.
I don't think I made this decision unaided. Though there were no dramatics, or even much evidence of presence, I believe that this was the direction that was inviting me. Almost everything that has happened since, including this opportunity affirms that. Hence my decision to drag myself into church the day before surgery and return six days later. Both Kairos and all of you have been tremendously supportive. Everlasting thanks and gratitude.
Anyway, it began immediately. On the day of my surgery I brought a Commedia del' Arte mask purchased in Italy 7 weeks earlier to the hospital, intending to wear it over the dressing. When that proved impossible. I hung it on my IV pole.
Why?
Sarah Woolf's bald head, painted in the Decatur High colors, was part of the inspiration for this.
I came back really well from the surgery, regaining almost all of my capabilities within two to three weeks. I've still got them—praise be!
Many thanks, Docs.
And, again, many thanks, church and all who sustained us.
But it ain't always easy. My decision is one that I have to remake on an almost daily basis, when free-floating anxiety, fatigue, or depression threaten to drag me down. Usually I have to start doing something, anything, meditate, pray or all of the above in order to do what needs to be done and be who I need to be.
Got Powdermilk Biscuits? Jesus' friends may have needed some. Often I do too.
Why?
Because, though so far, this hasn't been particularly physically painful or financially devastating, it has been tough.
I can never get away from my mortality—Something will remind me many times a day.
Or from the possibility that something will go (is going) wrong—either gradually or with great rapidity.
Chelsea reminded us earlier of the great insight in contained in the medieval spiritual classis, "The Cloud of Unknowing" when she said that she had stopped trying to understand God and now desired to get closer to God.
By contrast, I live in a cloud of NOT knowing.
That cloud will be there for the rest of my life. There is nothing to be done about this.
I know that I am not the only one among us who experiences this.
I also live with an isolation imposed by the diagnosis—paradoxical because I have almost never felt so much love—especially from this congregation. It's partly existential. You can't come back through the looking glass.
It's also how I see myself—and how many others see me—"John-with-cancer", "how long's he got?"
"How are you?" is said differently and has a different meaning.
All of this doesn't usually cause fear. But some times it can—and without warning. As a fellow survivor has said, you don't live day to day with this—it's often hour-to-hour—especially if you include the frequent naps that punctuate my day. Some would say this is not so bad.
And there's a lot that isn't. In fact I've been very graced—especially by Margaret, this congregation, my family, colleagues like Lauren and Gary and medical personnel. I've got it far better than many and I know it. I have both time and the ability to use it and friends to help in order to finish what needs finishing and even start a few new things, like a book about my experience and its meaning for me.
Many who die have none of these things, and face both relational and financial vulnerability. They face much more difficulty getting through an extremely difficult medical/pharmaceutical/insurance complex. I am relatively symptom and pain free—my treatments haven't been too bad.
I am neither an AIDS orphan, Darfur refugee, disabled or disfigured Iraq veteran or worse—Iraqi—with far fewer resources available. I think about these people as well. They and their earlier equivalents have been matters of concern to me since I was a pre-teen, more than 50 years ago, when I first demonstrated for racial equality in front of a local Woolworth's (remember Woolworth's?).
I may be John-the-cancer survivor, but I'm still John.
So what have I learned so far that might be of use and can help overcome fear?
I agree with him about not going gentle—but I've got some trouble with raging—it doesn't seem to do much good. So
Do not go gentle—go dancing!
(Note: the following ending paragraph was inadvertently left out of the version I gave on Sunday. I had intended to include it.)
I also know that I will go on—in part though you, in part through my family and in ways that I will never know. I may go on in other ways as well, but that is up to God. Thank you for being Oakhurst and being a part of my life and the journey that we are sharing; meeting fear, sometimes head-on, sometimes sideways, but always together and together with God.