Tragedy Week

Revelation 7:9-17

The Book of Revelation is one of the hardest books of the Bible to read and digest.  It’s not quite as dry as the endless census in the aptly named book of Numbers, but the Revelation to John is long on obscure, hallucinatory code-language, and short on clarity and logic.

It’s full of end of the world disaster – the famous images of the apocalyptic horsemen: conquest, war, famine, and death – and cosmic battles – but those are regularly interrupted by visions of healing and grace, glimpses of eternal life breaking in to the miserable end of time – like the bit we heard today.

Singing and praise and celebration and transformation for “those who have come out of the great ordeal.” These words – all of Revelation – were written for a community overwhelmed with persecution and suffering – a community that knew murder and death and pain first-hand, and frequently.

Today’s vision reminds us that those who have experienced this ordeal live the truth that they cannot ever be separated from the face to face presence of God, where “they will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; … the Lamb … will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

These are words we turn to in the church in times of suffering – at the time of death, and in the face of tragedy.  And I’m so glad that we hear them this week.

You see, this is Tragedy Week.

I realized that on Tuesday when my cousin Betsy proposed on Facebook that it might be time to skip the third week of April altogether.

She had reason. 

18 years ago this week, Betsy’s mother, my Aunt Kathy, died far too young.

Just two days later that year, the Murrah Federal Building was bombed in Oklahoma City – on April 19, timed for the anniversary of the destruction of the Branch Davidian compound in Texas in 1993.

A few years later, on April 20, 1999, two students opened fire at Columbine High School in Colorado.

Six years ago, 32 students died and 17 were injured in a massacre at Virginia Tech on April 16.

And now, well, there’s the bombs at the Boston Marathon, and all the sequels.

And an even more deadly fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas, that won’t get nearly the same traction in our national memory as those intentional acts of violence.

An earthquake in China.

And many of us here heard the last of that news while dealing with flooded basements – more stress than tragedy, but still…

It’s too much. 

I’m more than ready to dump this week from the calendar,

and even more ready to live in a world where the news doesn’t make me cry.

Tragedy is exhausting.

Personal tragedy, like a death or diagnosis in the family, the loss of important relationships or work.

Public tragedy, like Boston, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newtown, Virginia, Columbine, Tucson, Aurora….

Or under the radar tragedy, like Alzheimers and depression, the extinction of another species, and the hundreds of murders that never make the evening news.

We live with tragedy, seen and unseen.

But the thing is, we also live with God.

God, seen and unseen, just as real, even more present.

That’s why we still read Revelation, wading through the code,

because suffering and tragedy inhabit our world, yours and mine, today and every day.

And if we live with tragedy, we need to – we have to – live with hope.

Hope not just for a cure, or for a change, but hope that is a bedrock trust in the truth that God is present with us now, to guide and guard and rejoice in us.

Today, we hear the vision of “those who have come out of the great ordeal;” those who have witnessed and experienced murder and oppression, tragic loss and great danger and fear.  These are those for whom Tragedy Week doesn’t pass, on the calendar.

And they are singing.

They are shouting salvation and praise; singing with heart and soul and body.

It’s not denial, it’s not relief at survival, it’s not even really about comfort, but about the fundamental hope, the trust that we do live in the healing presence of God, always, just as much, or even more, than we live amid suffering and death and ordinary stress.

So they’re singing.

Because one way or another, our bodies have to express and respond to healing and hope,  just like they respond to tragedy with tears and exhaustion, and music is one of the best ways our bodies do praise and joy.

That’s the other bonus to reading Revelation this week.  I think people sing more in Revelation than any other book of the Bible.

And I’ve been thinking about music all week because today we’re celebrating the gift of music that we share at Calvary, declaring “Jeri Kellan Appreciation Day” as we give thanks for twenty-five years of gifted, caring musical leadership here among us.

It’s a day to celebrate, because there’s great truth to the holiness and healing power of music.

Music can carry our celebrations: as we sing for birthdays or national holidays or Alleluias and everything in between. And music can heal: restoring joy or bringing comfort, nurturing memory and hope, as we sing lullabies, laments, and old favorites. And music makes community, because it needs hearers as well as performers.

So I want us, like the saints in the Revelation, to sing.

Will you sing healing, this week?

You don’t have to know one note from another or carry a tune to sing healing.

You might want to offer well-rehearsed, beautiful, elaborate melody and harmony.  And if you can, please do!

But you can also just crank up the volume, tap your feet, drum your fingers, dance, or shout along to your favorite tune.

Sing Beethoven, or Beach Boys, or Lady Gaga.

However you do it, tune your body and your voice to joy, and to hope,

because that’s what we do in faith, even – or most importantly – when we grieve.

It’s been Tragedy Week, again, in our public lives.

And tragedy happens without consulting the calendar in our private lives.

But our story, here at Calvary, our Revelation, to share with the world, in the aftermath of Boston and all those other griefs, and in the centuries of faith;

our story is the song of hope, and healing, and eternal life.

One we live not in spite of tragedy and ordeals, but in the midst of them,

singing, because nothing – nothing! – can separate us from the wholeness we find in the presence of God, where “the Lamb … will be [our] shepherd, and he will guide [us] to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from [our] eyes."

Breakfast

John 21:1-19

You can think of this as a Monday morning sort of story; a back-to-work day experience.

It’s been a few days or weeks since the stunning death and resurrection of Jesus. Most of the disciples have seen him again – had an awe-inspiring encounter with God as they see and hear the risen Jesus – but he never sticks around, the way he used to when he was alive the normal way.

So Peter and six of the other disciples have gone back to Galilee – boring, ordinary, podunk, will-it-play-in-Peoria Galilee.  They’ve gone home, and they have gone back to the work they used to do. They’re fishing.

Now, it hasn’t been a great night on the water – the nets are empty, because some days the fish just don’t go your way.  They’ve failed, for the time being anyway, and they’re headed in to shore in the early light of dawn, when they see a man standing on the beach, calling out to ask them if they’ve got any fish to eat.

Well, no. 

So the man starts offering unsolicited advice, “Cast the net to the other side of the boat, the right side.” And when they try it – well, they can’t even get the net back in the boat, it’s so full of fish!

That’s when it clicks for them.  They recognize Jesus, and they recognize God.  Peter plunges ahead, as he always does, dressing up and then leaping in the water to rush ahead of the ship the few yards to shore. (It’s one of my favorite images in the whole gospel – it’s meant to be cartoonishly funny!).  And then of course, he’s got to go back out to help haul in the fish.

And as they all come up on shore,dragging an overfilled, awkward net of unexpected and heavy fish, Jesus says,

“Come, and have breakfast.”

Breakfast. The most ordinary thing, in the face of resurrection and miracles.

A basic everyday peasant breakfast of bread and fish, grilled over a charcoal fire.

And by this breakfast, they know that God is with them – resurrection God, the power of the impossible, and the unfathomable love of Jesus beyond death – is with them.

Jesus loves them,at work, when they’re a mess, after a lousy night’s work, at breakfast,

any where they go, any time.

Miracles, resurrection, inspiration, hope, love and joy aren’t for special occasions,

but for the every day tasks and places of their lives, the every day work and places of our lives, not just the mountaintops and the holidays.

The inspiring presence and overwhelming love of God belong most of all to hard and boring work days.  And everyday work, for disciples and for us, is fueled by that breakfast.

Think about the conversation that Peter and Jesus have when they finish this meal.

It’s a conversation that heals and restores Peter, transforming his temporary, frightened denial of Jesus into loving promise, and fulfilling Jesus’ promise that Peter can follow him, even after failure, even to giving his whole life.

Over and over, Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me?” And every time Peter says yes,  Jesus translates that into “feed my sheep.”

That’s not a chore, and it’s not putting Peter in charge of the whole church: it’s the basic life of a disciple; the everyday challenge of “Love one another as I have loved you.”

It’s actually the short form of the promises we make in baptism:
promises to love one another, share good news with people hungry for it,  and care for each other as God cares for us.

This gospel story, in so many ways, is about the real life that you and I have to live, full of Monday mornings, long, hard, and sometimes boring work days, real world failure as well as success, and breakfast.

Think about breakfast for a minute, now.  Your breakfast routine.  

How do you eat, on weekday mornings?

I’m told by reliable sources, (and by TV commercials,) that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It’s the meal from which our whole day, and whole diet, flow.

But still, I tend to eat breakfast with one hand and both eyes on the computer – or sometimes, standing up at the kitchen counter. 

I gave that up for Lent, trying for a more prayerful, quiet morning.  It mostly worked, and was occasionally wonderful, but in the last two weeks, my habits have taken over, and it’s email for breakfast once again.

And I bet that’s not too unusual.

If you’re retired, you’re more likely to sit down to breakfast, but chances are that working folks, and people with kids at home, are grabbing breakfast on the run, or sometimes skipping it entirely.

If we listen carefully to this gospel, it turns out that breakfast matters,

that it’s the first Communion meal of the resurrection,

and it can be a time and place and even sacrament of renewal, and healing, and loving inspiration for the daily work of discipleship.

So our daily breakfast matters, too.

Last Monday, on a day when I was rushed and busy and worried about all that needed to be done right now, I went out to breakfast.

It wasn’t my idea. 

I had unexpected houseguests – friends who were driving across country and needed a place to stay, and I don’t stock much guest breakfast.  So they took me out.  For eggs benedict, and good conversation, and a chance to remember who I am, and how great it is to have friends – and even why I love the work I do.

Last Monday, breakfast at Egg Harbor was just a bit like breakfast on that beach with Jesus, in the gospel.

What would it be like to have breakfast like that more often?

To share that meal with Jesus as we start the work day, to look and listen for opportunities to recognize resurrection in the early morning light, to pay attention to the reminders of God’s abundance, and God’s undefeated love, that lurk in our food, our families, our homes, and yes, our daily work.

Can you slow down your breakfast, tomorrow morning?

Will you take the time, this week, to share that first meal with someone you love, and to share it with God, with the risen, glorious, surprising Jesus?

Will you go through your work week, looking out for a sudden avalanche of large fish: the nudges of abundance in the midst of not enough, and the signs of possibility in what looks like failure?

And keep listening for a familiar voice laughing, and saying,

“Come, and have breakfast.”