An Easter Lament [Acts 2:42-47 - Easter 4A]
The Rev. Jeremiah
Williamson
Acts 2:42-47
An Easter Lament
These days, people
keep asking me how I am doing. They ask
me, “Are you OK?” And some of the time,
maybe even most of the time, I am; I am OK.
But also sometimes, I’m not. OK
seems to come and go; it just does.
Sometimes I’m not OK; sometimes I’m tired – tired of being told to be creative
and adaptive, tired of looking on the bright side, tired of checking facebook
and logging into zoom meetings, tired of the inside of my house. Sometimes I’m frustrated – frustrated that
another motorcycle ruined another take because I am recording videos of worship
in my yard, frustrated because I can’t ever seem to sort out the audio issues,
frustrated because I’m not as good at this digital version of church. Sometimes I’m sad – because there are things
that I miss, because there are things I’ve loved that might never be the same, sad
because the world feels heavy right now.
And we’re in Easter
season and Easter season is supposed to be happy and joyous and exciting but honestly
this Easter season just keeps breaking my heart. I force out Alleluias and there is no
congregation shouting them back at me. I
read the Scripture lessons in preparation for another sermon I will preach to
my phone and they remind of the things that I miss. I’ve probably never really noticed that every
lesson in the Easter season is in some way about being with people or about
receiving the Holy Eucharist. The
lessons crush me every single week. They
assault the wounded places in my heart.
The passage from Acts
this week is no exception. “Those who had
been baptized devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to
the breaking of bread and the prayers.”
So core are the practices to our lives as Christians, that this verse is
the very first promise we make in the Baptismal Covenant. But right now, we are able to keep only half
of the promise. While we have plenty of
Scripture on which to feed and plenty of time for prayer, we are missing each
other and we are missing the meal around which we once gathered.
I do fanaticize about the
future, when this is all over. I imagine
holding the host in my hands and hearing it break and watching the shattered
pieces, no larger than grains of sand, falling through the air in slow
motion. I imagine chanting the “Lord, be
with you.” And hearing you chant back at
me, hundreds of voices singing, “And also with you.” I imagine placing those circles of bread in
your hands and looking into your eyes as I name what you hold.
I imagine the feeling
of the pulpit steps under my feet. I can
feel the smooth wood of the pulpit, on either side of pages, wood worn by the hands
of a century’s worth of preachers. In my
mind, I can see your smiles, hear those soft church chuckles, picture that one
person who falls asleep almost every week.
I imagine standing back
by the font, as the dismissal echoes through the space, and from my privileged
place, watching people spill from their pews into the center aisle. And under the stuffed church mouse, we shake
hands and offer hugs. I miss shouting “good
morning” over Simon’s postlude. I’m not
sure he misses that, but I do.
I am glad we have the
technology to stay together, to stay in touch, to see and hear each other. It’s what we have. And I’m glad we have it. If we didn’t, this would even be harder. But we are people of the Incarnation. And I miss being together in space – me being
in your space and you being in mine. I
miss breathing with you, singing with you.
I miss breaking bread with you.
I don’t say this to
add sadness to your sadness. But I hope maybe
by being honest with you, you will be reminded that it is OK to be honest, to
feel your feelings, to cry your tears, to offer to God your prayers of lament. We generally do not do lament well in the
Church. Instead, too often we try to
explain, and understand, and look on the bright side. But as N.T. Wright recently wrote, “It is part of the Christian vocation not to be able to explain—and to
lament instead. As the Spirit laments within us, so we become, even in our
self-isolation, small shrines where the presence and healing love of God can
dwell. And out of that there can emerge new possibilities, new acts of kindness,…new
hope.”[1]
Mostly, I am OK. But
also, sometimes I’m not. There are
things that I miss, losses that I am carrying, prayers that I am struggling to
pray, feelings that I don’t want to feel, and those things are causing little
breaks to appear on the surface of my heart.
And so what I wonder, and perhaps what you are wondering too: Is there
enough room in this Easter season for our honest prayers of lament? Enough room in our Christian faith to bear
our strained Alleluias? Is there enough
room in the heart of Jesus to hold our pain and our sadness?
The thing that always strikes me about Easter, every year, is
that it always happens in the shadow of the cross. And I think that is why it matters, why
Easter matters so much. Because in life, like the world in which we
live, there is both beauty and pain, promise and threat, faith and fear. There is Easter and there is Good
Friday. Easter does not silence our
prayers of lament; Easter is the proof that lament does not fall upon deaf
ears. Lament is an act of daring faith
in a present God, a fertile soil from which hope springs forth. We know that Easter does not remove the shadow of death from our lives;
instead, it is the light that shines for us in the darkness. It is the light that burns in us, a light
that no darkness can overcome.
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