Both Sides of the Resurrection Story
A few days ago I dug through my big box of photos to track down two old snapshots I was pretty sure still lived in there. One is black & white with those old-time wavy edges, the other a three-inch square that came from the Kodak Brownie camera I bought with my allowance. They are reminders of Jodie on Easter Sundays. In each image there's an apparent clash of seasons. The photo's light says it's no longer winter, yet snow clings stubbornly to the ground, brown grass at the lawn's edges. The storm windows are still secure on the house. And although I'm adorable in my Easter bonnet of daisies and lace, it's possible my sister looks even more ridiculous in her pink straw number with an upturned brim. Each of us kids wears a gift from my dad. It was dad's habit to send a corsage, delivered from the florist's truck the Saturday before. Dad chose an orchid to complement our Easter finery and my mother was jealous of my single blossom, since her spray of flowers sprawled embarrassingly against her small shoulder. It probably was too early in the season to wear pastel spring-weight dresses underneath the heavy wool coats we were so very tired of, but we wore the new threads anyway. We were desperate to feel fresh and new, willing the used-up season to give it over to the delight of spring.
Last Easter I stood here too, invited then to share a remarkable Resurrection story. That liturgy also honored my dad, who woke us at Easter's first light with his call, The Lord is risen! We answered Dad, He is risen, indeed! Last Easter I'd just returned from my visit to the American Baptist Seminary of the West. I'd prepared for months, to visit for hours with its president who was once my pastor, during years I was the apple of our church organist's eye-- in the very most terrible way. I'd flown to Berkeley to say that Emmanuel was accountable for the crime of its pedophile employee, who had access to me, I argued, the church's child, on the church's time. Toward the end of that extraordinary conversation at the school I'd announced my confidence in my call and my wish to return to seminary. A justice issue, I wanted American Baptist interests to pay for it. The stone at my door rocked, I told you, because I'd been welcomed, believed and miraculously told yes, we'll make it happen. You affirmed my gifts for ministry and together we anticipate my 2007 graduation date.
Last Easter Sunday was a peak experience for me. I told a perfect Resurrection story-- a Good Friday set of circumstances stunningly transcended by God's compassionate love.
Thank you for your witness to a tremendous moment of personal triumph.
I thought it would be easy to speak again this year, to simply add something more to Easter's epic tale. But I pulled out those faded photos to confirm what I already know. There is a certain sort of scrimmage between winter and spring, as the season turns. Damp chill hangs on. Ice lingers where there's been no sun and the spring scene starts out dirty and dull. In my photos the tension that lives between the seasons leaps out. My coat and bonnet are incongruent; dad's corsage flower is out of place with snow so nearby.
I can't continue a story so spectacularly about spring without acknowledging its winter shadow.
Maybe you'd guess that I spent my year preparing for my adventure to begin-- in Berkeley, California, the city known for LSD and free speech and Alice Waters' innovative cuisine. Maybe you're interested to know where I'll live or the job I'll have to keep body and soul together. Will my pup, Bailey, make the trek? Where will my tuition come from, really, and what will I learn in my first year? What will become of my little house in St. Paul? What am I thinking to live a second time in a state with a celebrity governor? Will I ever eat out again?
These are the questions of my life today. I don't know the answer to even one.
My journey through this year's wilderness was not defined by those details that will shape my study years. Instead, God provided this Initiate a different sort of year to prepare for new life. My Easter-loving dad died shortly after last year's tribute. I lost two friends to cancer, one of whom I walked to the outermost edge of the planet. I built hope toward earning a generous and prestigious fellowship, but lost out at the competition's end. Our Region's treatment of our Ross broke my heart, embarrassed and confused me, and inspired the seminary to suggest that as a lesbian, my future ordination is a long shot. That news was a challenge to my soul I wasn't ready for. And every day, I anticipate the pain of leaving this place.
But this is a joyful day! On our calendars, the day of ultimate celebration! Jodie--Where is resurrection in this year's Easter liturgy?
My year of persistent grief reminds me that Resurrection wears more than one face. Grief and resurrection are two aspects of the very same miracle. We complete cycles to make room for the next victorious thing. Grief washes me into God's arms, and I count on the love and possibility that wait there. Rejoice with me as I open my heart to my new life in Berkeley, today. Help me melt the metaphor of a winter whose welcome has worn out. Help me claim a new vision that is fluid and free and familiar to Californians--waters of new life tumbling in the ocean waves that fall upon the Pacific shore and then recede in perfect symmetry. As we do, they complete cycles to make room for their next victorious crests. The ancient poet, Rumi, reminds us, the ocean takes care of each wave till it gets to shore.
Thank you, Jesus, for the promise that comes from you today and to Judson, for your amazing love. May I always give up to God's grace, embrace wilderness and stay convinced that love is the only way to new life.