- Poem: Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring By William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour and in hue,Could make me any summer’s story tell,Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;They were but sweet, but figures of delightDrawn after you, – you pattern of all those.Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
- Music video: Disturbed – Another Way To Die
- Poem: Music when Soft Voices Die (To –) By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
- Poem: My Cup by Robert Friend
They tell me I am going to die
Why don’t I seem to care?
My cup is full. Let it spill.
- Music Video: Revive’s Blink
We have cried often when we have given them the little victualling we
had to give them; we had to shake them, and they have fallen to sleep
with the victuals in their mouths many a time.
(parent of children working at a textile mill, to an
1832 Parliamentary inquiry into child employment)1.They cry for children too tired to cry for themselves,daughters twelve, eleven, eight—eyesshutting down as a grate’s banked coals shut downat midnight, in the rising damp called ‘home.’Too tired to eat after eighteen hours feedinglooms whose steel teeth grind insatiably,the girls will be offered up again at dawn.Yet they are the lucky ones, to work where skylightshold swatches of the unaffordable blue.Imagine these girls’ mine-trapped cousins, haulingblack rocks on sledges up tunnels of black air:half-undressed, belted, harnessed, saturatedwith the oil-blackened water they crawl throughpumping ‘the lifeblood of British industry.’Flogged for talking, Margaret Comeley, agednine, can sometimes close her mouth arounda piece of muffin—if she managesto keep it from the rats, ‘so ravenousthey eat the corks out of our oil-flasks.’Sarah Gooder fills her mouth with song‘when I’ve light, but not in the dark; I dare not then.’2.Here is a working girl so filled with lightshe is pure song: her sun-bright bodice shinesin counterpoint with her blue overskirt,and, from her forehead’s crescent of white linen,tapering light blazes a white pathdown arms and wrists to folds of spread blue cloth,like moonlight piloting the tide’s refrains.A Dutch milkmaid, Tanneke Everpoel,lucky enough to live in the Delft housewhere Vermeer’s eye and brush could catch the spillof morning light as her brief peacefulnessbrimmed over, serves here as a celebrant—bread heaped up on the altar-like table,wine transubstantiated into milkwhose brilliance seems the source of the room’s lightshe pours forever from the earthenware’sblack core. His pose; yet—all hers—underneath it(and signalled in her fixed eyes’ unconcernfor the beholder) such complete immersionin what she does, that she is all she doesand it is she, this offering-up of day.And he? When he was forty, the Sun Kinginvaded Holland. No one wanted art.In debt to his baker for three years’ worth of bread,Vermeer, according to his widow, falling‘into a frenzy,’ passed ‘from being healthy’in ‘a day or a day and a half … to being dead,’‘the very great burden of his children … so taken to heart.’3.Knowing the earth is closer to the sunin winter won’t revive the street personsleeping towards cold death in a bus shelter.Bread in a painting won’t cure stomach ache.So Margaret dragged her great burden of coalwhile Sarah sat terrified in the dark,and neither knew Vermeer’s poised working girl,broke bread with her, shared her breaking light.The painting stood by, helpless to save themor him, and looking at it now cannothelp anyone. Yet, it can cry for them,as parents take their children’s grief to heart:the beads of salt, shimmering on the breadlike diamonds, can be tears the two girls sheddown where no light sang their preciousness.The cradled pitcher’s brim can be their hearth,since it (and not the sky’s cold mine of stars)pours out what cannot shelter us, but feedsa hunger no daily bread can fill: for light—light that, like coal, comes from our earth; hungerthat, unlike grief, is inexhaustible.
In today’s readings, we hear many claims of people being anointed and raised up as leaders, such as King David. And we listen to the prophecy of a coming Messiah. We also hear God’s promise to a whole nation of people, not just those descended from Abraham, but those who share in that same love and faith.
The definition of CHOSEN is broken open, wider and wider, with every generation. Grace overflows. It cannot be limited or contained by our categories and linguisitic terms. Who is CHOSEN by God? As ever, I am grateful that God has the final word, not me.
And yet, I believe the invitation to be in relationship with God, and the work of the Holy Spirit all over the world, channeling the embodied love of Christ, is bigger than we can imagine, and will not be stopped. Christ could not be stopped by locked doors or fearful hearts, when he returned from death. That love will not be stopped by our national borders or political barriers or human desire to control and dictate who belongs inside or outside the circle of community.
Today is also Palm Sunday. In this part of the Lenten cycle, the beginning of what we call Passion Week, we focus on stories of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a white pony or donkey. It echoes the path of a king coming home. Or offers an inversion of that story. At First Church in Ipswich, MA, the congregation walks along the Ipswich river behind a rider on a pony. We sing and carry palms, waving them, recreating a small measure of the jubilee this day must have offered to Jesus and his followers, at least for a short time.
Yet this attention, this triumphal process 2,000 years ago, also heightened tensions in an occupied city, governed by a distant emperor, with uneasy governors in power there. This procession could be considered political, so that it drew attention to a man who already risked his life. Indeed, the nature of his death was a political execution. So along with the Hosannas of Palm Sunday, we hear underlying concern for what is coming next.
When we turn toward a connection with God, and sometimes even when we would rather say no, we are each CHOSEN. We are adopted and desired and beloved of God.
Excerpts from today’s lectionary:
- Psalm 89: 3– You said, “I have made a covenant with my chosen one,I have sworn to my servant David.
- Psalm 89: 19b-20a –I have exalted one chosen from the people.
I have found my servant David.
- Romans 4: 16 –For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (for he is the father of all of us.
- Matthew 1: 21 — She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.
DEATH, the theme that is common to the texts today, technically means cessation of life. It is the end of breath and heartbeat and brain activity. For some people, it implies cessation of being. Our faith promises a different outcome … that our being endures, perhaps in another form.
DEATH often means the ‘enemy’ in our culture. It is considered the enemy, even in Biblical imagery. Death is also considered a failure, when we think of science or medicine.
In some traditions, death becomes a teacher, a mentor, and a way of understanding the fullness of our mortality. This has become more true through hospice and palliative care in our own society, too.
Certainly death has something to teach us. In part, it reminds us to live fully while we are in this world, on this earth. Claim our time with joy and intentionality.
The imminence of our own endings is one of the lessons of Lent. We journey in the shadow of our own human frailty, brokenness and vulnerability. And our whole Christian story walks toward Jesus’ death at the hands of the Romans.
Yet the story doesn’t end there. It ends with post-resurrection sightings. With people who broke bread with the Messiah after he died and returned to us. The story ends with the hope of a life beyond death.
Death, as we say, is not the final word. Yet it is a word that we often, nowadays, fear. We use euphemisms, like “passed away” or “lost” or “gone.”
And I would say that one of our human challenges is to find a way to know that DEATH is part of our human experience. Once more, let it become a natural part of our journey, just like childbirth.
We may not want or welcome DEATH. Yet in the past few hundred years, we have become so afraid of death, we have lost language and rituals that make it part of our cultural experience. We tend to isolate those who are dying. We want people to snap out of it, or hide grief, and grieving.
We often medicalize the experience of dying. We offer escalating interventions, which may or may not gain us time, but may also compromise the quality of ouyr loved ones’ remaining time. Finding a different equilibrium is one of the ways of being we may be called to seek in these contemporary times.
More people have surgeries in the last week of their lives, and fully half of all medical expenses occur in the last six months of human lifespans, due to the forms of life-extending treatments and interventions that are possible.
Too often such endings mean that people die in institutions. Yet most people, when asked, say they’d like to die at home.
We will all die. And yet we are promised life beyond death.
Meanwhile, consider entering into conversation about this reality with the more vulnerable members of our family and community. If the subject comes up, explore it. Find out what people hope for the remainder of their lives. And what they fear. What gives meaning and purpose to life, what is worth trading away for more time, and what is worth preserving?
If you want to have a conversation, consider these resources:
Excerpts from today’s lectionary:
- Isaiah 53:12a — Because he poured out himself to death, and was numbered with the transgressors; yet he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.
- Hebrews 2:9 — But we do see Jesus, who for a little while was made lower than the angels, now crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.
Anointings can be a revolutionary act. And it can be done by common people: you and me.
Anointing was first reported in Hebrew scriptures as an event that sets aside priests and prophets. That happens in today’s Exodus text. After the time of Samuel, anointing with oil acknowledges kings and judges, starting with David and Solomon.We see it here in Psalms, when a king raises up a song of victory and praise to God.
In later Christian traditions, oil was also applied sacramentally for healings. Or to bless the dying. It was often called extreme unction or last rites, but has since been called ‘sacrament of the sick.’
In the Gospel story, the woman’s act of anointing is personal. Yet it can also be heard as political and public, since she stands in the tradition of prophets who anoint kings. She marks Jesus as a leader. And as we know, his coming death on a cross was a political form of execution by the Roman empire.
Since this anointing is also done by a woman, in a patriarchal society, it’s even more unusual. Lots of layers of social and cultural and spiritual complexity!
Anointing shows up in today’s texts in more traditional ways. Oil is used to mark something as holy. In Exodus, it is used to mark generations of priests descended from Moses’ brother Aaron. And it marks the tabernacle as holy. Plus anointing shows up in the song of the king.
Yet in yesterday’s story, a woman anointed Jesus. A regular person, a householder, sees the holy identity of God walking among us, and lavishly pours herself and her resources into naming and claiming that One with expensive oil.
Note to self: We tried anointing each other in church yesterday, and I learned not to use tea tree oil again; it’s very pungent. Try olive oil, right? We didn’t have access to nard …
Others in the house, in the Gospel story, protest the expense and waste of pouring so much oil on Jesus. She uses the equivalent of a year’s salary in this act!
Jesus defends her. He says her act shall be remembered, and that she’s preparing him for burial. He foreshadows the events of the Passion Week.
Jesus’ language of remembrance recalls the sacramental language of the Last Supper. “When you do this, remember me.” And in the versions of the story wherein she pours oil on his feet and washes his feet with her hair, it also recalls the foot-washing by Jesus for his disciples after the Last Supper.
This story shows up in all 4 Gospels, and in two versions, the woman who anoints Jesus is unnamed, in one she’s called a sinner, and in one she’s named as Mary of Bethany. So over the course of history this woman’s identity has often been collapsed into that of Mary Magdalene, and she has been labeled as a sinner, ie prostitute, which makes the scene seem even more sensuous and outrageous. Scholars and church authorities now admit that Mary Magdalene wasn’t aligned with the woman called ‘sinner’ in some texts, so that complexity has been lifted, although its hard to rid ourselves of hundreds of years of storytelling.
Anyway, it’s a sensuous, fleshy story. It’s a bodily sign-act.
Such perfume – nard — is often used to tend to the feet of a corpse. And in one version of this story, Mary and Jesus are indeed in the home of a former corpse, Lazarus, who was raised by Jesus from the dead. More allusions to death and resurrection.
On Sunday, the fifth Sunday of Lent, we anointed each other in church. We claimed the same role as the woman in the story. We put oil on each other, and gave each other blessings. Because in the UCC tradition, we are all empowered to do so. We are all ministers. We are all followers and servants and doers.
We are — each and all — allowed to receive such a blessing. And we are invited to offer it! Not just kings and prophets and priests. Regular people. Common folk. Householders. Women. Lepers. People brought back from death, or the edge of death.
When you think about it, the woman in the story lavished such oil on the body of Christ. And who is now the body of Christ? Us … you and me.
Selections from today’s lectionary:
- Psalm 20: 6 — I know that the Lord will help his anointed;
he will answer him from his holy heaven
- Exodus 40:9 — Then you shall take the anointing oil, and anoint the tabernacle and all that is in it, and consecrate it and all its furniture, so that it shall become holy.
- Exodus 40:15 — And anoint them, as you anointed their father, that they may serve me as priests: and their anointing shall admit them to a perpetual priesthood throughout all generations to come.
- Hebrews 10:22 — Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.
Such a small word today: LIFE. It contains the measure of our whole beings from beginning to end, and even beyond. When we speak of life, we mean so many things. We speak of ‘life’ as the actual quickening of cellular activity itself. Yet it is also the spark of intellect and soul that animates the flesh of our bodies.
In this word is one of the ultimate questions. What is the meaning of life?
Sometimes we’re referring to the viability of an individual being, and other times we define it as any form of organic and sentient existence at all. We use ‘life’ to mark the span of time from one creature’s birth until death: moving and breathe and operating as sentient beings. Yet we can also refer to eons of time, such as the age of a planet or a cosmos, as measured by signs of life.
As spiritual creatures, we are always looking past the veil of our own senses, toward a greater and deeper meaning. We reach and imagine beyond the shape and contours of our own mortal bodies to something we cannot quite touch, detect, or cognitively encompass. Our sense of possibility is somehow defined by the limits of our corporeal selves and what we are and are-not.
The concept of life holds, in so many ways, all that contains our meaning. We weigh and express the value of all other ideas and experiences, emotions and thoughts, tangible and intangible treasures, against the weight of our own being, our own lives.
We measure risk by the threat of death and the end of life. Yet isn’t it interesting to consider that sometimes the greatest risk isn’t to face death, but to live our lives fully? To risk life? This is the challenge that today’s texts expose to us.
In today’s text, God’s divine love and presence is considered more valuable than the Psalmist’s own life. Is the writer euphemistic? Could the writer extol God’s love, except by being alive to do so?
In the prophetic text of Daniel, three characters put their lives on the line to defy an unjust law, and to continue faithfully worshiping their own God. Their lives are delivered,. So their faithfulness is measured by their willingness to sacrifice their own mortal span of being. And the power of Godself is revealed to the unjust leaders of the land, when God saves their lives, despite the affliction and torture turned upon them.
In Revelation, Christ is once more described as the one who was dead and then returned to life. Divinity is inextricably bound up with life, survival, and being. The ultimate promise of Godself is that we will have a second life, a different life, a life after death. If life contains all of our meaning, then a life that defies the very strictures that form the boundaries of our capacity to understand and experience the world, a life that overcomes death … that is powerful indeed.
So how do I measure the meaning and value of life? I cannot measure the impact of life by time alone. The import of my younger child Jessie, who lived 9 years, cannot be encapsulated by days and years. That is a poor standard to describe the value and impact of her presence among us.
So how do I describe her life? It’s easier to consider her life, versus my own, since I’m in the middle (I assume) of my own life. Her life was comprised of the relationships she formed and influences through her being. Her life could be measured by her way of being a teacher and mentor to older folks, through her approach to balancing suffering against all that made life worthwhile to her as a child. What made life rch and good to her? Engaging in fierce and deeply-rooted relationships, being able to move and claim her own body, feeding and stretching an inquisitive mind that always wanted to learn and question, acting ethically to support causes she cared about and to change unfair circumstances when she could, experiencing sheer joy through playing and laughing or taking risks … Her life was ultimately measured by her loves.
Whether it’s 9 hours, 9 days, or 90 years … our God’s presence fills up the measure of life for us. What are we willing to put at risk for this love, if not life itself? And as I mentioned earlier, isn’t the greatest risk not to die for this love, but to live for this love?
Excerpts of today’s scriptures:
- Psalm 63: 3a — Because your steadfast love is better than life.
- Daniel 3:28 — 28 Nebuchadnezzar said, “Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who has sent his angel and delivered his servants who trusted in him. They disobeyed the king’s command and yielded up their bodies rather than serve and worship any god except their own God.
- Revelation 2: 8b — These are the words of the first and the last, who was dead and came to life.
- Revelation 2: 10b — Be faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life.