Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Briarcliff, Croton, and Ossining

Easter Myth, Easter Faith

Given by James Covington on May 5th, 2005

I received an email this week from someone new to our Fellowship who asked what we do about Easter. Well, it’s a perennial question for us. Yet, we still celebrate it. This morning, UU ministers all over are attempting to speak to this day in a way that will offer credibility and purpose to the story we otherwise remain somewhat skeptical about, at least from a factual standpoint. Sermon titles selected by UU ministers such as “You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down,” and “Disappointed Tomb Raiders” indicate our ambivalence about Easter Sunday. One congregant of a congregation suggested that the headline in the Easter ad for the local newspaper be “Join us. We’re not sure what happened.”

So, however much we need it, Easter remains an awkward day for Unitarians. The trumpets sound, we all sing, and Jesus is not resurrected. At least not as God’s only son. We’re not sure what happened. But neither is anyone else. So what are we doing here? Why even bother? Are we simply creatures of habit who have forgotten why we do the things we do? Are we all dressed up with nowhere to go, witless participants in a vain show designed to make us feel better about death, without offering any good reason why we should? If religion, as I believe, is the human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die—if we are the religious animal because we know that we must die and therefore question what life means—what is our response? If we don’t have a heavenly insurance policy, is the best answer we can come up with simply that flowers return in the Spring? Is that enough for you? Will Spring work its magic the year you die? If you don’t ask yourself such questions today, I can almost promise that you won’t do so tomorrow. In fact, you will surely do so only when the trap door is swinging beneath your feet, and then it will be too late.

In this week’s issue of “Newsweek Magazine,” a rather respectful account of the rise of Christianity after the death of Jesus is rendered. But the author struggles to delineate in the story what we know to be factual about the death of Jesus and what we don’t know. How much of the story is remembered history and how much of it is heartfelt, but unhistorical theology is hard to say. Nevertheless, there is something in the story that has captured the hearts and minds of millions of humans and thus cannot be dismissed lightly. My conviction is that the Jesus narrative captures the essence of the human story—the hope and longing, fear and sorrow of the human heart. Such stories are called myths—stories not necessarily based on historical fact but that speak to the human condition.

Whether he was resurrected on Easter or not, Jesus’ Good Friday tribulations bear witness to an all-too-human death. Suffering, uncertainty, reconciliation and resignation are each manifest in his final words, as recorded in the Gospels. Jesus questions God (”Why hast Thou forsaken me?”). He suffers (”I thirst”). He seeks closure with his enemies (”Father forgive them, for they know not what they do”), and for himself (”It is finished”). Though the Book of Genesis proclaims that “there is none other than the House of God, and this is the gate of Heaven,” for Jesus as for all of us, at times of death the House of God is first and foremost a house of sorrow.

What we do know is that Jesus entered Jerusalem with fanfare, leading a band of followers who believed that he was the messiah. Within a week he was betrayed by one of his disciples, brought before Pilate, sentenced, and crucified. His followers disbanded and went into hiding, in fear for their own lives. His chief disciple, Peter, forswore him three times rather than admitting to any knowledge of him. This is not the way the story was supposed to turn out. By ancient tradition the promised messiah, descendent of David, king of the Jews, would march triumphantly into Jerusalem to be crowned. Apparently, this was the expectation of many of Jesus’ Palm Sunday followers. The problem is, their expectations had nothing whatsoever to do with Jesus’ point of view.

Did Jesus literally rise from the dead? Well, the scripture doesn’t support that. He was seen by his disciples is various guises. Sometimes he was not at first recognized, and he was not in his bodily form. He sort of came and went, so to speak. In fact, this kind of thing happens much of the time when people lose a loved one—as many as 45% of widows and widowers report seeing their spouses after the spouse dies. What it does suggest to me, is that there was a very powerful bond, connection between Jesus and his friends.

Did Jesus ascend, body intact, into heaven? Well, since we have traveled into space, that calls into question this place called “Heaven.” Is it a real place, “up there”? Probably not. So what happened? Who rolled the stone away? What happened to the body of Jesus? We don’t know. And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. What’s really important is what happened to the followers of Jesus. What is important is not the teachings about Jesus, which have served to divide humanity over the centuries and used to murder in his name. It is the teachings of Jesus that matter.

For me, Easter faith has nothing to do with Jesus as the Son of God or his resurrection. Easter faith has to do with my convictions about my responsibility to others and how deeply I love. They are inter-related, of course, but also separate in their own right. Let me explain.

When his disciples asked him how they could get into the Kingdom of Heaven, Jesus replied, in essence, that when we die there will be a quiz. The questions are not “Do you believe in the Trinity and that I died for your sins?” They are “Did you feed the hungry and heal the sick and clothe the naked and house the homeless and visit those in prison.”

Another way to put it, to use the Christian vernacular, is that we are not saved from our sins by believing in Jesus but by following Jesus– and every other prophet of God’s love. Not because Jesus is the son of God, literally, but because he epitomizes the very ground conscience of humanity. “Feed the hungry,” he replies. “Clothe the naked, house the homeless, heal the sick, visit those who are in prison,” Jesus replied. I find it quite interesting these days to note that the majority of religious people in the world’s richest nation profess to follow a religious founder who spoke out against the corruptions of wealth and for caring about the disenfranchised.

“Who is my neighbor?” is another question his followers ask. Well, he said, “Whoever needs your love is your neighbor.” Then he went to on to tell a story about an unfortunate man who fell victim to robbers and left for dead and who was passed by a priest, of all people, and a Levite, a person of supposedly outstanding moral standards. Instead, a hated, despised Samaritan came by and upon seeing the poor victim lying in ditch, stopped and tended to him and saved his life. Who was the true neighbor? I think we know the answer. “Love your neighbor as you love yourself,” he said and then capped that one off by saying, “You must therefore love your enemy as well.” “Forgive those who persecute you.”

To take his most challenging injunction, by loving our enemy we give away our entitlement to revenge; we sacrifice our pride. We also sacrifice our sense of entitlement and all the pleasures that go with vengefulness, bitterness, and hate.

Forgiveness, too, requires sacrifice. We must sacrifice self righteousness, our preoccupation with having been wronged, and the advantage of holding another in our debt. Finally, and most important, we must sacrifice our control over everything that lies beyond our power—including our control over others, over events, and over the future. Ultimately, the courage to love requires the courage to let go. Fear accompanies us all the way to the grave, but we needn’t hold its hand or accept its cold comfort. The word sacrifice means, “to render sacred.”

By the same token, to be at home with life we must make our peace with death. Without death, life as we know it could not be and neither could the possibility for love, which brings me to the 2nd aspect of my Easter faith. To the extent that religion is a death-defying act—offering strategies whereby we can live forever—it diminishes our reverent appreciation for life, thereby representing a failure of awe.

It’s not that I disbelieve in an afterlife; I simply have no experience of an afterlife and therefore have little to say concerning one. I do know this, however. First, nothing (including any imaginable afterlife) could possibly be more amazing than life itself is. Second, life as we know it is impossible without death. Finally, theology may begin at the tomb’s door—the specter of death prompting reflection on what life means—but surely no revelation is more compelling or worth pondering than that of a new-born infant emerging from its mother’s womb. Theology’s heartbeat is the miracle of our own existence.

That is why we are here this morning. To witness a miracle. Not the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection, but the miracle of his life, a life surely tested in the crucible and redeemed, a life worth dying for. We are here not to witness Jesus’ resurrection but, through an act of empathetic imagination, to witness our own awakening. How do we do that?

Think of little things. Reaching out for the touch of a loved one’s hand. Shared laughter. A letter to a lost friend. Remembering those who loved us and love us still. An undistracted hour of silence, alone, together with our thoughts until there are no thoughts, only the pulse of life itself. We may not understand any better than before who we are or why we are here. But for this fleeting moment—the one moment we can bank on—our life becomes a sacrament of praise.

There is an intriguing story told about Fred Rogers (Mr. Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood fame) which suggest an awakening moment. At an Emmy Awards Ceremony he went onstage to accept an Emmy Lifetime Achievement Award. There, in front of the soap opera stars and talk show hosts, in front of all the jutting man-tanned jaws and jutting saltwater bosoms, he made his small bow and said into the microphone, “all of us have special ones who have loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, ten seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are. . . Then seconds of silence?” And then he lifted his wrist, and looked at the audience, and looked at his watch, and said softly, “I’ll watch the time,” and there was, at first, a small whoop from the crowd, a giddy, strangled hiccup of laughter, as people realized that he wasn’t kidding, that Mister Rogers was not some convenient eunuch but rather a man, an authority figure who actually expected them to do what he asked. . . and so they did. One second, two seconds, three seconds. . . and now the jaws clenched, and the bosoms heaved, and the mascara ran, and the tears fell upon the be-glittered gathering like rain leaking down a crystal chandelier, and Mister Rogers finally looked up from his watch and said, “May God be with you,” to all his children.

As Thomas Jefferson himself said, “It is in our lives, not our words, that our religion must be read.” Give one tenth as much of yourself away as Jesus did, and your life will be read long after its curtain falls. The one thing that nothing, not even death, can ever take from us, is the love we have given away. Like the love of Jesus our love too endures long after the animating fire of life flickers and dies. That is why the love of Thea Cagvanagh, who many in this room also loved, will live on in our hearts and minds and even on into the hearts and minds of others we love who will have never known Thea Cavanagh.

So love life fiercely. Give your hearts away with magnificent purpose and abandon. Mix your hopes and dreams in life’s crucible; transfigure them into works of love and deeds of kindness. Become alchemists of the human heart.

If religion is our response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die, the purpose of life is to live in such a way that our lives will prove worth dying for. As much as anyone in history, Jesus lived in such a way that his life proved worth dying for.

Which brings us back to Easter. If love is the story, death itself can always be redeemed. But only by love.

Life after death isn’t the heart of Easter’s message. About life after death, no one knows. What Easter teaches is that there is love after death, and that our actions invest life with purpose and a meaning that abides. In a way we celebrate Easter to remind ourselves of everything that matters. After death our bodies may be resurrected. Our souls may transmigrate or become part of the heavenly pleroma. We may join our loved ones in Heaven. Or we may return the constituent parts of our being to the earth from which it came and rest in eternal peace. About life after death, no one knows. But about love after death, we surely know. I have learned this from some many good people in my life. I learn it also from each of you. The one thing that can never be taken from this world, even by death, is the love we have given away before we die. For love, you see, is immortal.

MEDITATION

One final word. As with the love of Jesus, our own love means nothing until we give it away. After we die, only the love we have given away during the course of our lifetimes will surely endure. But that is enough. Love is enough. With every good deed, with every kind word, with every gentle touch, with the gift of forgiveness and in the quest for peace, we teach one another the Easter message: that love alone remains.