Easter mornings, when my brother and sister and I were kids, we would wake up excited.
On Easter sunday mornings, although we would have to make the usual sacrifice of getting on those tight shoes, and putting on a tie and sitting in a church pew for what seemed like ages, on Easter the reward was a hunt for those chocolate eggs that mom and dad had hidden around the house.
Every family has it’s traditional way of ensuring that everybody gets a fair shot at the eggs, and in mine that meant that each of us kids had a room in the house all to ourselves. We would tear the rooms apart, looking for those chocolate treasures, and then gulp them down as fast as we could, so that we wouldn’t have to share, leaving only the empty wrappers on the floor as a reminder of all that sweetness.
After the gorging would come the penance. Off to church we went and, as if the length of the service wasn’t enough, after church on Easter Sunday we would make the rounds of the cemeteries. My family, even though most of them lived fairly close to one another (nothing is never far away, relatively speaking, in New England) seemed to showed an appalling lack of consideration to their future generations by having their corpses interred as far apart as possible.
It’s not like they didn’t get along in life. Mine was a family filled with love for one another, at least as much love as a people of that generation were able to show. Still, they insisted on colonizing cemetaries all over the city of Providence and it’s environs. Like so much seed cast upon the fields. So, Easter became a time of chocolate bunnies and visits to tombs.
Today, as I sat in church, listening to Rev. Dukes (she is a REAL reverend) I was struck by something. A great realization. The work of the Holy Spirit perhaps?
All those visits to cemeteries that we made, and still make today, have reinforced a great truth that I've just been too blind to see. The fact of the matter is that because of Jesus’ great sacrifice, ALL the stones have been rolled away from ALL the tombs. Like Mary Magdeline learned, the ones we go there to seek are not there. They are ALL risen, and are seated at the hand of the Father.
Yes, all the tombs are empty, for the ones we seek are risen…they are risen indeed.
Peace to you all, and a very happy Easter season.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Another view of Good Friday
Caiaphas was the Chief Priest in Jerusalem at the time of Jesus' crucifixion. I imagine what was going through his head at the time. I imagine him writing to his son about it:
My Dear Son Elionaecus.
Now that the Passover festival is complete, I am finally availed of time to write you. I am weary of spirit and body both from the demands of the festival time, as well as from the weight of the mantle I wear. It has become more clear to me than ever that the small stirrings which have occurred in our nation will soon culminate in a popular uprising against the Roman authority. I would welcome such an event if I believed that it would be our gain, but instead I fear that the outcome of any such event will be the utter destruction of us as a people. Thus it is that my role here has become more that of an arbiter than of a priest. The balance which exists between our nation and the authority must be maintained, even if it necessitates some small sacrifices.
I say all this to you because you have undoubtedly heard of the events of this Passover concerning the Nazarene prophet. I say to you that it was a difficult thing to watch, and a more difficult thing to have been forced to be an actor in that drama. Needless to say, there will be many versions of events circulated, and I fear that both my name and the name of your grandfather may well be mentioned at times in these tales. This troubles me doubly because I believe Pilate’s calculated actions in this matter have sown the seeds of destruction for our peoples by inciting further unrest at the expense of all of us on the Sanhedrin. Not that the Nazarene was without blame. He did himself much harm by openly consorting with a group of Galileans! Didn’t he realize that Galileans are always suspect of sedition? Had he been blind and deaf to the anti-Roman agitation there that has for years drawn unusual attention from the Governor? Imagine - he would not even deny that he had claimed kingship! Well, needless to say, Pilate made great sport of that issue, even going so far as to post a sign on the scaffold “King of the Jews”. While many of the throngs at the execution may have found it humorous, we on the Sanhedrin knew what Pilate intended by that message – that the only “King” that our people needed is Caesar.
In fairness, I can understand Pilate’s position. Can you imagine how such a story would have been received in Rome? I can assure you that if Caesar had received such news, we would all be hanging from the crossbeams of a crucifixion scaffold. While I understand that circumstances demanded that he take action, I am troubled that we were once again forced to send one of our own to the slaughter for Rome. I continue to be troubled by the need to balance the best interests of our people against the petty vindictiveness and blood lust of our Governor.
At the trial Pilate asked the crowd if they wanted him to release the Nazarene, but he specifically referred to him as “…your king…” I tell you truthfully that I felt my breath leave me when he asked the question that way. Fortunately, someone had the good sense to shout out that we had no king except Caesar. Pilate seemed disappointed that his trick failed, and he was denied the chance to arrest the whole throng on sedition charges. Then he washes his hands, can you imagine it! He washes his hands as if the decision to execute the man was ours.
The execution itself was a most terrible spectacle. I usually don’t attend them because they are so disturbing, but, perhaps because I had spent so much time questioning this man, I sensed something drawing me to attend.
I recall the meeting the Sanhedrin had with him, there were so many witnesses who clearly had been sent by the Governor to try to convince us of his guilt. All the while, he sat there, not speaking even to defend himself. He was probably a rebel, and definitely lacking good judgement, but I actually felt pity for him nonetheless… That is until he claimed to be the one the Pharisees say was promised by the prophet Isaiha.
I can’t imagine why he said such a thing. He must have known what the reaction would be. So…everyone condemned him to die for his blasphemy, and many struck him, and some spat on him, and… I am now ashamed to say that I was one of them. I say I am now ashamed because I have tried to learn more about this man as I have struggled to make sense of his behaviour and actions.
For instance, at the execution, as the end came he made a most curious cry, saying Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? I continue to wonder what he could have meant by that? Also, perhaps it was just coincidence, but one of those mysterious ground shakings occurred at the moment that he died and I noted that it seemed to feel colder. I must tell you that the whole spectacle was more than a little unnerving for all of us. It troubles me when I look back on the details of that day, but I record them not so much for myself, as for yours, that you may share in it through my eyes.
I remember noticing some older women, and a few others, followers perhaps, sitting off some distance the whole day, watching him. It seemed sometimes as if he would never die and give himself and his friend’s peace. I was disturbed at how the Roman soldiers seemed to express particular delight in his prolonged suffering. It was no doubt another means of reinforcing a message to all of us, but wasn’t it enough that they had tormented him all day, and stolen the very clothing from him?
In any event, the execution seemed to satisfy Pilate, and served as a sufficient example to us all that the remainder of the festival was unmarked by any further incidents.
But the question remains: who was this man? The more I learn out about him, and his teachings, the more uncertain I am about what we have done here. Clearly he was not mad, yet just as clearly he and many others believed that he was the Messiah. Was he? Is it possible that the Pharisees are right, and a messiah will come… or has come? I admit to you in strictest confidence that part of me wants to believe him. I wish I was able to speak freely on these thoughts, and ask these questions openly, but while I sit on the Sanhedran that is a luxury that will have to remain confined in letters to you, my precious son.
Since this Passover feast, I have begun to ponder the question – How will we know when or if a messiah comes? Will we know, and even if we do, will we be able to admit it to ourselves, and speak of it in the presence of others who might scoff at us, call us blasphemers…even perhaps spit on us and condemn us?
Tell your brother and mother that while troubled in spirit I am well in body, and will return home soon. Your esteemed Grandfather and Uncles also send their regards.
Your Father, Joseph Caiaphas
My Dear Son Elionaecus.
Now that the Passover festival is complete, I am finally availed of time to write you. I am weary of spirit and body both from the demands of the festival time, as well as from the weight of the mantle I wear. It has become more clear to me than ever that the small stirrings which have occurred in our nation will soon culminate in a popular uprising against the Roman authority. I would welcome such an event if I believed that it would be our gain, but instead I fear that the outcome of any such event will be the utter destruction of us as a people. Thus it is that my role here has become more that of an arbiter than of a priest. The balance which exists between our nation and the authority must be maintained, even if it necessitates some small sacrifices.
I say all this to you because you have undoubtedly heard of the events of this Passover concerning the Nazarene prophet. I say to you that it was a difficult thing to watch, and a more difficult thing to have been forced to be an actor in that drama. Needless to say, there will be many versions of events circulated, and I fear that both my name and the name of your grandfather may well be mentioned at times in these tales. This troubles me doubly because I believe Pilate’s calculated actions in this matter have sown the seeds of destruction for our peoples by inciting further unrest at the expense of all of us on the Sanhedrin. Not that the Nazarene was without blame. He did himself much harm by openly consorting with a group of Galileans! Didn’t he realize that Galileans are always suspect of sedition? Had he been blind and deaf to the anti-Roman agitation there that has for years drawn unusual attention from the Governor? Imagine - he would not even deny that he had claimed kingship! Well, needless to say, Pilate made great sport of that issue, even going so far as to post a sign on the scaffold “King of the Jews”. While many of the throngs at the execution may have found it humorous, we on the Sanhedrin knew what Pilate intended by that message – that the only “King” that our people needed is Caesar.
In fairness, I can understand Pilate’s position. Can you imagine how such a story would have been received in Rome? I can assure you that if Caesar had received such news, we would all be hanging from the crossbeams of a crucifixion scaffold. While I understand that circumstances demanded that he take action, I am troubled that we were once again forced to send one of our own to the slaughter for Rome. I continue to be troubled by the need to balance the best interests of our people against the petty vindictiveness and blood lust of our Governor.
At the trial Pilate asked the crowd if they wanted him to release the Nazarene, but he specifically referred to him as “…your king…” I tell you truthfully that I felt my breath leave me when he asked the question that way. Fortunately, someone had the good sense to shout out that we had no king except Caesar. Pilate seemed disappointed that his trick failed, and he was denied the chance to arrest the whole throng on sedition charges. Then he washes his hands, can you imagine it! He washes his hands as if the decision to execute the man was ours.
The execution itself was a most terrible spectacle. I usually don’t attend them because they are so disturbing, but, perhaps because I had spent so much time questioning this man, I sensed something drawing me to attend.
I recall the meeting the Sanhedrin had with him, there were so many witnesses who clearly had been sent by the Governor to try to convince us of his guilt. All the while, he sat there, not speaking even to defend himself. He was probably a rebel, and definitely lacking good judgement, but I actually felt pity for him nonetheless… That is until he claimed to be the one the Pharisees say was promised by the prophet Isaiha.
I can’t imagine why he said such a thing. He must have known what the reaction would be. So…everyone condemned him to die for his blasphemy, and many struck him, and some spat on him, and… I am now ashamed to say that I was one of them. I say I am now ashamed because I have tried to learn more about this man as I have struggled to make sense of his behaviour and actions.
For instance, at the execution, as the end came he made a most curious cry, saying Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? I continue to wonder what he could have meant by that? Also, perhaps it was just coincidence, but one of those mysterious ground shakings occurred at the moment that he died and I noted that it seemed to feel colder. I must tell you that the whole spectacle was more than a little unnerving for all of us. It troubles me when I look back on the details of that day, but I record them not so much for myself, as for yours, that you may share in it through my eyes.
I remember noticing some older women, and a few others, followers perhaps, sitting off some distance the whole day, watching him. It seemed sometimes as if he would never die and give himself and his friend’s peace. I was disturbed at how the Roman soldiers seemed to express particular delight in his prolonged suffering. It was no doubt another means of reinforcing a message to all of us, but wasn’t it enough that they had tormented him all day, and stolen the very clothing from him?
In any event, the execution seemed to satisfy Pilate, and served as a sufficient example to us all that the remainder of the festival was unmarked by any further incidents.
But the question remains: who was this man? The more I learn out about him, and his teachings, the more uncertain I am about what we have done here. Clearly he was not mad, yet just as clearly he and many others believed that he was the Messiah. Was he? Is it possible that the Pharisees are right, and a messiah will come… or has come? I admit to you in strictest confidence that part of me wants to believe him. I wish I was able to speak freely on these thoughts, and ask these questions openly, but while I sit on the Sanhedran that is a luxury that will have to remain confined in letters to you, my precious son.
Since this Passover feast, I have begun to ponder the question – How will we know when or if a messiah comes? Will we know, and even if we do, will we be able to admit it to ourselves, and speak of it in the presence of others who might scoff at us, call us blasphemers…even perhaps spit on us and condemn us?
Tell your brother and mother that while troubled in spirit I am well in body, and will return home soon. Your esteemed Grandfather and Uncles also send their regards.
Your Father, Joseph Caiaphas
Monday, March 3, 2008
Church Closings
My old church is closed.
When I was growing up, I attended the Church of the Messiah in the Olneyville section of Providence, Rhode Island. It was the same church that my mother had attended as a little girl, and that my maternal Grandmother and Grandfather attended. It was an old church, but I don’t remember it being an old congregation. Sure there were older folks, but there were plenty of kids as well. Whole families attended and there were enough members to justify two services on Sunday. I went back there with my brother about two years ago. It seemed smaller than it did when I was a kid, but other than that, it was exactly as I remembered. There were only a few people there, and some of them even remembered my brother and I. It had been thirty years since I had last set foot in the place, but those decades fell away the minute I walked in the door.
I loved the Church of the Messiah. I loved getting there early, and sometimes sitting there alone. I loved being alone in the church. I would look in awe at the huge Oak beam that ran across the entire worship area, with a carved oak cross at the very midpoint. I loved watching the sun stream in through the stained glass windows, I loved touching those windows, and the lead between each individual piece of glass. I loved the smell and feel of that place.
As we walked in the door, we passed the baptismal font and I paused. I ran my hand over the cold stone. It was pink Vermont granite, in the shape of a chalice. I remember thinking of how many babies (myself included) had been baptized there. I remember, as a kid, standing at the back, handing out bulletins when I was in the “Senior” department. Sometimes we even got to take up the collection. I remember how the money would go into a red velvet bag in each gold collection plate. I looked, they were still there - thirty years later. Still sitting on the little table at the back, right side, right under the little lamp that seemed to always be on.
I saw the bell rope, and I remember how we sometimes got to ring the bell before services. That job usually went to Doug Fox, a boy in our class who’s father died when we were all about 12. Doug had keys, and would sometimes take us through the little door at the entryway that led down into the basement. It was dark and spooky down there. The church had burned to a stone skeleton in 1920 and the basement still showed distinct signs of the fire. Down there, you could feel the soot even 40 years later. It smelled like a burned building, it was dark, and mysterious.
I knew that building inside and out, and being back there after so long felt like coming home, the quiet and peacefulness of the place wrapped around me like a blanket.
We went in, and I took a seat by the crucifixion window on the left side, even with the row that I sat in when I was in the “Junior” department, next to the image of Mary, holding a dead Jesus, the wounds in his hands and feet which you could actually touch if you stood up on the end of the pew – which you could only do when there weren’t any adults around. (There weren’t, so I did).
The organ played, and I sang. I mean I really sang -from my soul - for the first time in a long while. It came time to take communion, and more memories flooded back.
I remember Saturday morning catechism classes – being cooped up in church on a clear, bright day off from school. I remember what it felt like to finally take that first communion, and trying hard to remember to do everything just the way we had been taught. I remember being so anxious for the usher to finally reach our row, so we could go up. I remember walking right up the three steps at the front, and past the organ on the right, seeing Mrs. Bishop playing softly, the HUGE organ pipes on the left, behind the choir. Then, stand in line and wait for your turn at the communion rail, the place where the “little kids” couldn’t go yet. I remember kneeling down on the cushions (not like the hard rails in the pews), right there with the adults, right hand cupped into left, waiting for Rev. Welch to put the wafer in my hand. I remember while waiting I would look at the big carved chair that was only used when the Bishop was visiting us. I remember how the railing was just a little too high for me, so I had to stretch out for the wafer. Put the wafer in your mouth immediately if you wanted to sip the wine (yes, real wine).
And now it was thirty years later, and the reflection staring back up from the bottom of the communion chalice wasn’t that of a 12 year old. I saw the face of a middle aged, balding man, and it both surprised me, and made me a little sad. But I remembered what we had been taught so long ago - you let the wafer dissolve in your mouth - never chew it because Mrs. Dircolee told us”… we don’t chew Jesus…”. Then walk back to your pew with your hands folded, kneel down and wait for everyone else to have communion.
So that’s what I did, but I also fought back tears brought on by emotions I still haven’t sorted out. If you had asked me thirty years ago why I went to church, I would have said I went because “…mom says we have to go”. But I now realize that I was going there to be with God.
The Church of The Messiah is closed, and all that’s left are the empty shell and memories. It was a victim of changing demographics. But it was, and always will be a part of who I am, and has touched, and will continue to touch everything I ever do. I close my eyes and I am there, full of people, full of kids. I am one of them again.
It is still the place I think of when I preach and when I pray. It is still the place that helps me to sing – really sing – from my soul.
As I think about it, the truth is no real church EVER closes.
Peace to you all,
When I was growing up, I attended the Church of the Messiah in the Olneyville section of Providence, Rhode Island. It was the same church that my mother had attended as a little girl, and that my maternal Grandmother and Grandfather attended. It was an old church, but I don’t remember it being an old congregation. Sure there were older folks, but there were plenty of kids as well. Whole families attended and there were enough members to justify two services on Sunday. I went back there with my brother about two years ago. It seemed smaller than it did when I was a kid, but other than that, it was exactly as I remembered. There were only a few people there, and some of them even remembered my brother and I. It had been thirty years since I had last set foot in the place, but those decades fell away the minute I walked in the door.
I loved the Church of the Messiah. I loved getting there early, and sometimes sitting there alone. I loved being alone in the church. I would look in awe at the huge Oak beam that ran across the entire worship area, with a carved oak cross at the very midpoint. I loved watching the sun stream in through the stained glass windows, I loved touching those windows, and the lead between each individual piece of glass. I loved the smell and feel of that place.
As we walked in the door, we passed the baptismal font and I paused. I ran my hand over the cold stone. It was pink Vermont granite, in the shape of a chalice. I remember thinking of how many babies (myself included) had been baptized there. I remember, as a kid, standing at the back, handing out bulletins when I was in the “Senior” department. Sometimes we even got to take up the collection. I remember how the money would go into a red velvet bag in each gold collection plate. I looked, they were still there - thirty years later. Still sitting on the little table at the back, right side, right under the little lamp that seemed to always be on.
I saw the bell rope, and I remember how we sometimes got to ring the bell before services. That job usually went to Doug Fox, a boy in our class who’s father died when we were all about 12. Doug had keys, and would sometimes take us through the little door at the entryway that led down into the basement. It was dark and spooky down there. The church had burned to a stone skeleton in 1920 and the basement still showed distinct signs of the fire. Down there, you could feel the soot even 40 years later. It smelled like a burned building, it was dark, and mysterious.
I knew that building inside and out, and being back there after so long felt like coming home, the quiet and peacefulness of the place wrapped around me like a blanket.
We went in, and I took a seat by the crucifixion window on the left side, even with the row that I sat in when I was in the “Junior” department, next to the image of Mary, holding a dead Jesus, the wounds in his hands and feet which you could actually touch if you stood up on the end of the pew – which you could only do when there weren’t any adults around. (There weren’t, so I did).
The organ played, and I sang. I mean I really sang -from my soul - for the first time in a long while. It came time to take communion, and more memories flooded back.
I remember Saturday morning catechism classes – being cooped up in church on a clear, bright day off from school. I remember what it felt like to finally take that first communion, and trying hard to remember to do everything just the way we had been taught. I remember being so anxious for the usher to finally reach our row, so we could go up. I remember walking right up the three steps at the front, and past the organ on the right, seeing Mrs. Bishop playing softly, the HUGE organ pipes on the left, behind the choir. Then, stand in line and wait for your turn at the communion rail, the place where the “little kids” couldn’t go yet. I remember kneeling down on the cushions (not like the hard rails in the pews), right there with the adults, right hand cupped into left, waiting for Rev. Welch to put the wafer in my hand. I remember while waiting I would look at the big carved chair that was only used when the Bishop was visiting us. I remember how the railing was just a little too high for me, so I had to stretch out for the wafer. Put the wafer in your mouth immediately if you wanted to sip the wine (yes, real wine).
And now it was thirty years later, and the reflection staring back up from the bottom of the communion chalice wasn’t that of a 12 year old. I saw the face of a middle aged, balding man, and it both surprised me, and made me a little sad. But I remembered what we had been taught so long ago - you let the wafer dissolve in your mouth - never chew it because Mrs. Dircolee told us”… we don’t chew Jesus…”. Then walk back to your pew with your hands folded, kneel down and wait for everyone else to have communion.
So that’s what I did, but I also fought back tears brought on by emotions I still haven’t sorted out. If you had asked me thirty years ago why I went to church, I would have said I went because “…mom says we have to go”. But I now realize that I was going there to be with God.
The Church of The Messiah is closed, and all that’s left are the empty shell and memories. It was a victim of changing demographics. But it was, and always will be a part of who I am, and has touched, and will continue to touch everything I ever do. I close my eyes and I am there, full of people, full of kids. I am one of them again.
It is still the place I think of when I preach and when I pray. It is still the place that helps me to sing – really sing – from my soul.
As I think about it, the truth is no real church EVER closes.
Peace to you all,
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