It's Morning?

Last Sunday's sermon was anchored in Psalm 30:

Weeping may linger for the night;

But joy comes with the morning. 

I taught the congregation to declare it over and again, "But joy comes with the morning."  It's Easter after all, the season of resurrection and new life.  It's time to move beyond old laments to the new songs of praise.  It's  time to put away the sad, heavy dirges and sing for joy.   Alleluia!

That was Sunday . . . then came Monday, with two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  A day that began with glorious, beautiful morning turned to tragedy in the afternoon.  I sat at a table and prayed at the opening of a meeting, oblivious to what had happened in Boston and to what was happening in the hearts of those who prayed beside me.  They had received the terrible news as they arrived.  I had not yet heard it.  The deeper prayer happened in the silence after the spoken prayer.  We were carried back to other tragic times.  We went all the way back to Holy Week, from Sunday to Monday to Friday all over again.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  Where?

Then came Wednesday with its news that our elected leaders had rejected an opportunity to speak and act to limit gun violence in our society.  It was not even a bold bill that was before them.  Could they not remember what had happened on Gibson Avenue to little Christopher Harris so many years ago?  He would have been nearly fifty now.  His life was taken by a culture saturated with guns, drugs, and violence.  His life was taken away.  Day became night.  Could they not remember what had happened so recently in Columbine and Aurora, and so recently in Newtown?  All those precious lives taken away.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  How?

Then came Thursday and the news of an horrific blast in the night in West, Texas.  Volunteer firefighters rushing to save a burning fertilizer plant . . . to save their town.  Lives taken in a flash, given up in the service of others.  A town destroyed, left in broken pieces.  Where are the lilies, the trumpets and the echoes of the alleluias now?  "But joy comes with the morning."  This is morning? 

I wonder, in light of all that has happened in but one week--this week--how I would revise my Sunday sermon were I preaching this Sunday--the Fourth Sunday of Easter.  "Weeping may linger for the night; but joy comes with the morning."  I still believe it to be a word of God for the people of God.  I still anchor my soul in this hope: God's righteousness and love will prevail. Christ's resurrection will be our reality. For now, I will stretch myself toward Sunday, longing for the dawning of God's new day.  I will sit with the silence.  I will pray for all those whose lives are have been changed and taken.  I will cry out for justice, for shalom in this society.  I will pray for the dawn yet again; and I will continue to be confident in the refrain of an ancient poet:  "But joy comes with the morning."

O God, through my tear-filled eyes and my broken heart, give me but a glimpse of your dawn.  Grant us all wisdom and courage.  Bless all people with your joy.  Alleluia!

Life on "Low Sunday"

Yesterday, as we walked toward the front door of our church building, a violet crocus had poked up through the soil where just days before a ridge of snow had been piled.  There were baskets of pansies on either side of the door to greet us.  The signs of life were apparent, even on a Sunday that is often considered to be "low" after the exuberant joy of Easter Sunday.

Once inside the sanctuary we were greeted with more life.  Our congregation had a larger than anticipated crowd of congregants.  The praise band played with joy and taught us to sing a new song in a new day.  Seven new members joined the church.  We heard about the faith of Thomas and came to a greater appreciation for his discipleship.  The Communion Table was spread and shared.  The Risen One was among us.  There was life--joyous, glorious life--even on Low Sunday.

In the afternoon, I attended the Installation of Rev. David Keller at South Newbury Union Church.  This was no ordinary installation, but a service overflowing with promise, energy, and life.  So many came to witness and celebrate the new covenant that was made.  It was probably the final formal service of the Sullivan Association (our oldest) as it soon will merge with other Associations; yet, there was life in the service.  There was hope.  There was the possibility of a new future, a new beginning--the joy of resurrection.  The Risen One was there!

Sometimes, when I least expect it--even on Low Sundays and Mondays--life breaks in and breaks out.  The Risen Christ comes and leads my heart to deeper joy and renewed hope.  Resurrection is the reality that changes the heart and transforms the world.  It is so!  Alleluia!