THE RESURRECTION OF OUR LORD
April 20, 2014
John 20:1-18
Pastor David Tryggestad
Concordia Evangelical
Lutheran Church
Duluth, Minnesota
“Joy, joy, joy!”
He was sitting at the far end of the dining room, at a table
for four, but with only himself and two women. All three were eating with their
heads bowed down; either they were intent on their food or they were avoiding
conversation. Seating at the assisting living facility is not by choice but
rather by assignment. Not many men were present, and those who were there were
at tables already filled, with no empty places. I wended my way through the
dining room and knelt beside him, close enough so that he could hear me without
my shouting at him. When he saw me, he gave a wide smile. He has lost almost
all that is dear to him: a successful and respected profession, his beloved
wife of over 60 years, his house that was home to him and his wife since their
wedding and that bore all four children, and, most recently, his car. After
catching up on the latest news from both him and me, he commented on the recent
death of a long-time and beloved member of the congregation. I was pleased that
he was keeping up with the goings-on here. Then he looked at me and exclaimed,
with a gleam in his eyes, “Joy, joy, joy!” He was commenting on the most recent
newsletter from the congregation that mentioned the closing words of the
personal devotional that belonged to the woman who died. The last words for the
reflection on the day she died were, “Joy, joy, joy!”
Considering his circumstances, this was not the sentiment I
might have expected from one whose daily existence is now to come to terms with
profound loss. These were not the words I would have expected from him, not
now, perhaps not ever.
“Joy, joy, joy!”
Just the day before I had read about a recent book by Pope
Francis, entitled, The Joy of the Gospel,
published last year. I was intrigued by the title, and when the man in the
assisted living facility talked about joy, I decided to stop at the bookstore
on my way home and buy a copy.
There are Christians whose lives
seem like Lent without Easter. I realize of course that joy is not expressed
the same way at all times in life, especially at moments of great difficulty. Joy
adapts and changes, but it always endures, even as a flicker of light born of
our personal certainty that, when everything is said and done, we are
infinitely loved.[1]
“. . . joy is not expressed the same way at all times,
especially at moments of great difficulty.”
“Joy, joy, joy!”
What words do we expect from one another? What conversation?
What overall sentiment?
Our Easter Gospel for today finds Mary Magdalene weeping in
the Garden. When she recognizes Jesus, her first instinct is to embrace him.
Jesus warns, “Do not hold on to me . . .” Mary longs for an embrace, but Jesus
says to her, “Not yet. I have not yet ascended to my Father.”
Pope Francis in his book offers that we live our lives between two embraces: the first embrace
is that of our Lord at our baptism, when we are declared to be a beloved child
of God, in whom God is well pleased. The second embrace is that of the
“merciful Father who awaits us in glory.”
This Christian identity, as the
baptismal embrace which the Father gave us when we were little ones, makes us
desire, as prodigal children . . . yet another embrace, that of the merciful
Father who awaits us in glory.[2]
Pope Francis brings up the issue identity: who am I? I
wonder if most of us go through life asking the question, “Who am I?”
My wife, Lynn, and I made a quick trip to the Cities the
week before last to attend a concert with the Minnesota Orchestra. Hila Plitmann, a well-known
soprano from Israel, now
living in London, sang a piece with orchestra
called “Knoxville:
Summer of 1915,” by American composer Samuel Barber—it’s a piece both Lynn and
her sister have performed. The text is by James Agee from his novel, A Death in the Family. He is remembering
his childhood on a summer evening:
. . . it has become that time of
evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently . .
. They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet, of nothing in particular,
of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all. . . . with voices gentle
and meaningless . . .”[3]
After a while, he is taken up and put to bed, and he thinks
to himself about his family: “but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever;
but will not ever tell me who I am.”[4]
“. . . but will not ever tell me who I am.”
What words do we expect from one another? What conversation?
What overall sentiment?
The congregation as of the Body of Christ is the mutual
conversation and consolation of the brothers and sisters. The congregation is
where the conversation happens that reminds us who and whose we are, regularly,
every time we gather. We don’t speak of “nothing in particular.” Rather, we
speak in particular of God’s
embrace—the first and the last—and in the meantime we embrace one another with
the kiss of peace. Our conversation and consolation is always a reminder of
God’s first and last embrace of us. Without that ongoing conversation, we are
left as helpless and empty as James Agee as a child: “but will not, oh, will not,
not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.”
Pope Francis talks about the first embrace, at the font of
baptism: “This Christian identity, as the baptismal embrace which the Father
gave us when we were little ones, makes us desire, as prodigal children . . .
yet another embrace . . .”
I want to go back to the old man at the assisted living
facility and his unexpected and unlikely exclamation: “Joy, joy, joy.” The
woman who had died and whose life is summarized by, “Joy, joy, joy,” knew
sorrow and heartbreak. She had lost a son as a little toddler to drowning. It
happened around the time this church was built, and this baptismal font is in
his memory. Imagine a woman whose son’s life was taken by drowning dedicating a
pool of water to her son’s memory!
She was a woman of faith, and she knew what Pope Francis
knows: that the baptismal font is the place of our first embrace. And, according
to Francis, that first embrace leaves us yearning for “yet another embrace,
that of the merciful Father who awaits us in glory.”
Now, both mother and son are enveloped in that second and
final, eternal embrace.
We live between two embraces: the embrace of our Lord at
baptism, when we are declared to be God’s beloved child, in whom God is well
pleased, and the final and eternal embrace of our Lord.
In the meantime, we gather weekly as the Body of Christ to
remind one another of that first embrace and to anticipate the second, to
speak, not of “nothing in particular,” but rather to speak in particular, reminding one another of who we are: as God’s
beloved.
“Joy, joy, joy!”
Not, to borrow a Christmas tune [sing]: “Joy to the world,
the Lord is ris’n! Let ev’ry heart rejoice!”
Thanks be to God!
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